Demoting myself

When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?

I have given up on my career path to embrace the goal of manifesting a peaceful death.

I recently abandoned my hope of a return to work, bought a really old type of phone on a pay as you go plan and let myself be abused by the Canadian medical system because I’m a citizen of this country and I intend to die as one too.

OK, so I’m probably technically taking an early retirement…like super early. But I still want to be useful with my time left and I’m not willing to be stepped on or over any longer.

My immediate family thinks I’m over-sensitive, which is true. I’m sensitive to stimulants,  sensitive to cruelty,  sensitive to my own situation…my failures and suffering. I’m derailed by the sob stories of everyone who’s had it worse than me, to the point I can no longer be empathetic these days.

The doctors say it’s okay for it to be about myself right now. I just know in the long run, I won’t matter. My impact will be minimal. I’m likely to be quickly forgotten.

Many women are offering minor supports but it’s a system of endless referrals. I’m not too fragile usually,  but this worst case scenario has cracked me for good. Still. A few are offering future plans… I prefer these proactive people right now.

We want what we want and confronted with the reality that we can’t even have half of our aspirations; we take what we can get. I think it’s wrong to complain about it when it’s not life or death. People who complain usually annoy me, but there’s a lesson in that too.

Complain to the right people.

I’m in this funky place though, where it quite literally is my life on the line. I’m looking forward to radiation. I’m looking forward to pill breakfasts and a fat face from steroids. I’m looking forward to being able to make plans and keep them once again.

6,7,8,9… Why was 6 mad at 7? Because 7 ate 9. Stupid joke from when I was a kid. Could only remember the punchline for the longest time.

At Bay Days, I was only able to find 6s… for new underwear… kind of annoying when you’re usually an 8.

Shall I rebrand and call this random musings from a dying whore? Perhaps.