Words have not been forthcoming.
Telling the truth is hard.
Makes me think of my blog award from last year. What an honour to get an award just for telling the truth. Lots of truth. It sounds simple but that doesn’t make it easy.
I had an MRI in July and it just came back saying there were multiple filling defects in my uterus and I don’t know what that means so I’ve been waiting nearly two weeks for an appointment because they referred me to a gynaecology consultant. I got the appointment letter today and it’s on 4th January, so I’m hoping now I can set that aside and enjoy Christmas because when I got the MRI result letter I freaked the fuck out. My boyfriend looked online and said it could be anything from air bubbles to scar tissue to some kind of blockage that can be removed. It could be anything from nothing at all to something that makes it difficult or impossible for us to have children. Of course, the first thing and main thing that came into my head is that it’s cancer and it’s been there for ages and I’m going to die. But apparently it’s good to think positive or something. And Peter said when he looked online he couldn’t see any mention of the C word in this context. But I’m sure it could be. I have no idea what it is. So it’s all been really hard. In the first couple of days after getting the appointment letter I couldn’t even summon the energy to wash my hair. Everything felt like too much effort. It was all too difficult. So I’ve been trying to do things when I can, in case I have another day when I feel like things are too hard. Peeking Cat was a week late because of this and general illness.
I saw my therapist for six sessions but we’ve stopped now. Which is fine. I know I used to think I had PTSD, or I thought it would be better if I did because it was better than the alternative – being unnecessarily afraid was better than having something real to panic about. But there’s nothing wrong with my mental health. It’s fine. And that’s not easy, either. To be so anxious about something and to feel so emotionally messed up but to know that there is nothing wrong with you, mentally at least. My therapist seemed to think there was nothing we could do about things like health anxiety – it is what it is. So that’s sort of good that there’s nothing wrong and depressing that there’s nothing you can do about nothing.
But it is something though, isn’t it? Obviously it is something.
Anyway, I thought i was about time I wrote something about all that. Out of the head and onto the page, or something.