Sometimes I wish the cancer had won.
There'd be a noble tragedy about it, and I wouldn't have to take the blame in the same way I would as a suicide. And I'd be out of here. Sometimes that feels like a win-win situation.
The key word here is "sometimes". I'm not about to do anything, btw. I'm writing this because I had a rubbish day, right down in the black depressive hole. It wasn't even all bad, in fact most of it was good. I spent a lot of it in meetings and was effective in them. I went for my first outside run in 10 months and didn't completely suck. But then, come the children's bedtime, I could feel my fuse shortening and shortening. They wouldn't listen. I shouted. I looked around and saw piles of stuff to do everywhere, and before I knew it I didn't know where to start or how. I needed to take time out and eat supper but didn't want to eat because I am still putting on weight at a rate of knots and I hate myself for it. The evening progressed through a small sobbing panic attack to me sat on the sofa in my little shell, not talking. And at times like these, I want a way out.
It's 4 am. After food and sleep I feel better but also guilty, for thinking this way, for being so horrible to my family. And angry, bloody angry, for the first time. Because I didn't ask for this and I didn't do anything to deserve having my life torn up and the pieces scattered on the table for me to somehow stick back together.
I just hope my family can forgive me for what I think, what I have become. It isn't me, it's fucking cancer.