My last blog entry was over two years ago. I stopped writing because, quite frankly, I was boring myself with the angst and frustration. I found I was defining myself by the writing – and I was way over it.
My blog had become an outlet for complaining. I had a lot of complaining to do and one day, I was just done and wanted to move on. I no longer wanted to be ‘that’ woman who had cancer – and writing about it kept me in that place.
Since I was writing the blog for me – I stopped the blog for me.
But people did not stop approaching me and wanted to know what happened? Where am I? Did I ‘beat’ cancer?
So, here I go. What follows is my attempt to explain all that has happened in the past two years so that I can put an ending to my beginning.
Until January 2010 I continued with herceptin every 3 weeks, and after that I was done. I was done with the treatments. I had refused Tamoxafin for 5 years because I knew in my heart of hearts that if I did do it, I would become the statistic that got uterine cancer. I had learned all I had needed to from the toxic chemicals. The abuse needed to stop and I was very clear and calm with my boundary.
Never one to let the question ‘why’ fester, I began a lot more journeying to find health and peace in my life. I went to John Hopkins and took part in a psilocybin study for cancer and depression that had a scholarly intention of having a “mystical experience” (how rad is that??). I continued with Somatic Therapy to deal with the anxiety and PTSD I have had most of my life around my pattern of having something ‘terrorizing’ come ‘out of left field’ and smack me down (the way the cancer did). I found therapeutic support to start easing the cultural expectation on what my life should look, gave back the shames that were projected onto me that were never mine to begin with, and stepped fully into my own unique rhythm so I could enjoy the life that I am living.
Just like every other person living and reading this blog right now, I continued to be human. I showed up everyday – sometimes I made mistakes other times I jumped for joy. I learned more tools that allowed me to take responsibility for my feelings, found cleaner and clearer ways to communicate how I felt and continued to seek support so that I could love and take care of my own little one inside. The tools I learned not only helped my nervous system relax, but also healed the traumas that have been in my body for a long time so that I did not have to continue to repeat the patterns. Little by little I was starting to realize that I was worthy of love, respect and care. Basically, I learned how to parent myself in a healthy way. I was finally growing up.
In the fall of 2010 I traveled to the ancient lands of Peru to meditate, release and learn how to surf. But it wasn’t until an out of the blue, 2 week trip to Paris, to celebrate my ability to go to Paris on a moments notice, hence enjoying the benefits of no husband and no kids, that I was finally able to bring in my missing pieces.
I went with the intention of writing and being inspired (and eating descent croissants daily). Within my writings I began to understand my life and my choices – the details of which are profound, but are not to be shared today, as it is too long for a blog entry. The summation of which I now know why I have not been in my body for years – and why there was so much space for the cancer to be created.
In Paris, through my writings, I experienced anger, rage and eventually suffering. Viscous and deep, it made sense why I had avoided that kind of pain for so many years. I found the place where respect had been replanted with seeds of hopelessness and care had been replace with a deep well of despair.
Trust had been annihilated and love had been layered with confusion. In the place where I thought I had self worth I found a deep space that echoed with abuse. And in the space where a soul should be, I found judgmental, angry and hurtful voices filling up every void. I allowed these dark places to move through me, I held myself gently; I experienced them as a whole adult. Upon coming through on the other side I found I could now tell the story of how I came to manifest cancer in my body – and know that the places in me that called cancer in are not who I am. And the sadness for that place in me… the mourning of an illusion that isn’t even real... the well of tears from inside overflowing on the outside… within that space I had a visceral experience of forgiveness, for myself, for my parents… followed by immense waves of gratitude.
I, just like everyone else, have always been connected to who I am on the inside: my godself, my intuitive place, my self esteem, the universe, my innocence, my self worth, spirit, she is who is me, my little one – call it what you want, but it my books, it is all the same. For 42 years I was not living from this place as this connection had been chipped away by my lineage and smothered with societal expectations, both of which are ladened with both giving and receiving abuse. I learned to do what those who had come before me had done, replace self worth with self hate; gentle intuitive whispers with scathing judgmental voices. As a newborn I was taught almost immediately how to shut myself off to this connection within because the flow of her light inside conflicted with of the unrealistic expectations put upon me by my family and society on the outside. What I endured is considered by society to be ‘child rearing’ in preparation for toughening up in a society that thinks it can actually be in some kind of control over nature’s impulses. Personally, I call it abuse. I now perceive the world in which we live in, where we value a green piece of paper more than the life of a human being as an abusive world; my understanding of this truth became my first seed of hope.
My cancer was a reflection of the rage and anger I had, because deep down inside I knew I was disconnected to my intuitive self in order to survive. The cancer was a manifestation in the physical form of this disconnection or one might say, lack of love.
No amount of ceremony, medication, meditation, weekend workshops, therapy or ritual on its own could heal it. For me it was the years of self-reflection, the therapeutic tool of differentiation, presence with my internal connection, Paris herself and the writing done there that allowed for true healing into the depth of my soul.
After Paris, on my way back to Los Angeles, with a dozen croissants stowed away in my carry-on, I spent 3 days with my family in Florida, where my sister and I grabbed a brief moment while her kids were sleeping before we passed out ourselves. As we were changing into our PJ’s, I caught a flash of my naked body in the mirror. There I was, all 42 years of me. I turned and looked straight at my sister, “I can’t even believe I had Breast Cancer. I mean I look at my body and it is just that, my body. I forget sometime I even journeyed through it – until someone reminds me of it.”
“I know. Strange, huh?”
“Bizarre. Truly bizarre.”
When I look at myself in the mirror, I do not see a victimized, cut up body with scars, new breasts and tattooed areolas. What I see is me. My body and my scars; my perfection and my imperfections. I see lines and shapes, darks and lights. Beauty and wonder, wisdom and youth. It’s all there. A journey to my soul is all there on the outside, for me to see everyday, reminding me of how much strength there is in vulnerability. It is neither good
nor bad. It is just who I am. And I can be settled, spacious and proud of all that.Freedom. Blessed freedom. Finally, I am home.
Oh, and for those who care, I am cancer free.
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