All of a sudden I feel like I'm hitting the wall at 100mph. With a Bacardi Black and coke in one hand, an emergency cig in the other, and all to a Kings Of Leon based soundtrack. I went to bed and started blubbing. I haven't blubbed since my diagnosis, apart from crying at the end of Ghost Town, which we should probably gloss over. I think I'm doing alright and then *BAM*, I start thinking about shit things like never having a boyfriend again, never having children, never getting married (bum order of things for a Catholic there), and who the hell wants to go out with a woman with one boob who might lose her hair and, God forbid, her sense of humour? I have such a brilliant, BRILLIANT, support network - family (who are fucking fabulous to infinity and beyond), friends (especially B-girl - tits and teeth love!), work friends, neighbours, medical people etc. but I can't help thinking that I miss having a significant other to be there when no-one else is. I mean like at 3am. Or like now. I remember sad ex saying that you can't put on people...and I so don't want to put on anyone. But surely a SO is there to be put upon? In a reciprocal kind of way I mean. You put upon them, they put upon you. Sad ex was shit anyway. I don't know why I'm even thinking about him.
When it was New Year 2009 I did a global text to say that I hoped 2009 wasn't as much of a shithouse as 2008 was (just to elaborate, my horse died of a tumour in Jan, my heart was bruised in June, then again in November, Mrs P had to have more chemo, then I had a nervous breakdown - not a good vintage) but 2009 is SHITENESS personified. I had my heart broken by some shithead Brummie who ran away even before I was diagnosed, then I got breast cancer, then Mrs P needs more chemo again and oh poor Mr P with both of his girls with the Big fucking horrible C...I don't want fucking breast cancer; I don't want Mrs P to be so ill; I want what everyone else seems to have (although they probably don't, when you scratch the surface) a normal bloody life with no crap and no titting about with cancer.
This Bacardi Black is good stuff. ~And K of L ROCK.
Fuck me.
Why is all post-mastectomy underwear bloody awful?
ETA - I just checked my diary. Am pre-menstrual, which probably explains a lot. Best make the most of it hahahahahahaha.
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