All I Can Do is Write

I hate Cancer. I had it and got lucky. I beat it, just in time.

I hear about it so much on social media that I just get angry. Dammit! It’s not fair. I have lost friends and relatives. I read about children who have it. It’s not fair. The treatments are getting better (as mine was), but there is always someone else who can’t beat it even though they try with every ounce of strength in their bodies.

Later, we read, this person lost their battle with cancer. Just wait a darn minute! How do we fight something inside our body that we can’t see? Advantage, cancer. Not fair!

I remember having my last appointment with my doctor after surgery. There was a woman at the counter who had been successful, and she whooped it up, but I saw another woman in the corner who clearly wasn’t doing so well. I mentally sent her good thoughts, but I wanted to hug her. Of course I couldn’t. I remembered people doing that to me, and although they only meant well, I didn’t want a hug.

I wanted to run after the loud woman and ask her if she know what she had done to the woman in the corner wearing the bright head scarf.

I got lucky, but I tried to leave the doctor’s waiting room as quietly as possible.

To anyone, anyone fighting, I send my love.



Rain Again

It feels as though it’s been raining for days, but right away the Bad Critic (remember him?) says,”Whatcha problem, lady? Ya want hot or cold, rain or sun?”

Obviously, I’m a glass half empty person. No. More like a glass empty, period. It’s the brainwaves, they say. You are made that way. But I know better. I learned to see things that way, and when the brain went wonky on me, starting at about age nine, well, things weren’t always pretty. This blog isn’t meant to be a poormeIhavedepression, but I hope, eventually, I might reach a like-minded soul. We’re all different, and every one of us has a bad critic, but most of us don’t wake up every day with a terrible dread. Or spend so much time worrying about something that may never happen…I know, there is a logical part of my mind that tries to butt in and make sense of things. This is my Mr. Spock who says I can’t control it, so why worry? I can’t always hear my Spock. He gets buried under the Bad Critic who is so loud, sometimes, I can’t think. Am I crazy? No, I have met crazy, and that person thought he was perfectly fine.


I live with storms inside my head, and sometimes, the lightning crashes through my brain as though all the electric bulbs in the world flashed on at the same time. Most people love Friday nights. I usually crash from the mask I must wear all week long. Most people must think this is crazy. Am I? am I crazy? Or is it the world? My mind? My depression.

I don’t get dressed up Friday nights. I sleep. I try to regroup. I am grateful for them. “Have a good weekend,” people say to each other in the same way they say, “Have a good day!” I sleep on. Maybe one time I will tell you why. I will tell you the story of my big sleep and where I took me.