Sunday Brunch

Brain Fog and Blank Pages...(and a bit of crochet)

I wonder where this week went. Apart from yesterday’s family get together for New year I don’t remember much of it. Shell shock, my former death doula said when I told her that I don’t really register my days, go from wanting to write all day to staring into blank space to crying. There have been a lot of tears this week and a lot less words.

Maybe I have been crying more because I don’t sleep. Ever since the daily dose of firecrackers was radically increased in the run up to New Year’s Eve (which I hate with a vengeance unless I am somewhere far away from people and fireworks) we have been doing our best to accommodate two terrified dogs. This included me sleeping on the sofa downstairs for several nights and taking turns with mum to take the dogs for a walk around 4:30 - the only time they felt safe enough to go outside.

(I know I sound like an old grumpy fart but this… this… wrap your head around this… 118 million euros spent… 1200 people hurt… two people dead.. 50% more damage than last year… animals dead… animals missing… animals stressed out… Is this really worth it? With all these collateral damage we need a new way to drive out all the bad spirits for. clean slate in the new year….)

I feel (and look) like death warmed up by now. I also feel sluggish, drowsy, dizzy and slightly unhinged. It reminds me too much of the insomnia hell of Valea Zalanului that I crawled out of this summer. I need sleep. Good quality, deep, resting and regenerative sleep!

SIDE NOTE: I feel and look like crap so the rest of today I want to have a mini pity party and binge watch the new season on Netflix of … Queer Eye! who I secretley want to come and save m from myself… with snacks - my last day of eating anything I want).

JUST THIS ONE POST

I feel Carol Joyce Oats breathing down my neck ever since I took her master class… write… always write… sick..tired..crazy…doesn’t matter…just write!! I have managed one post this week. This one. It is badly written, a tad on the boring side even. But I do mean what I share here. Over the years I have adopted some habits, practices or strategies, whatever you wish to call them, that pull me back every time I am hovering too close to the ledge.

I revisited them when looking on the patient forum Inspire as I tried to hunt down a former cancer buddy of mine. We lost touch about two years ago, but I had this gut feeling. She is having a recurrence too (we both have been lumped with strange and rare sarcomas) and we have now reconnected on Facebook.

Tomorrow I am starting a 100 day healing marathon, based on diet, supplements, juicing, prayer and voodoo and whatever else I can think of. I am taking elements from David Servan Schreiber Anti Cancer Diet, the Gerson Therapy, the Moerman diet and the NEMO protocol, as well as teas, juices and supplements used by shamans in the Amazon rainforest. A lot of it is not evidence based and very intuitive, and possibly its efficacy depends greatly on the placebo effect… BUT… as the late Wayne Dyer so wisely said: “If you are suffering from horrible haemorrhoids and someone tells you sitting on a special crystal chair, and it works, does it matter why?”

HOME IS A FEELING… NOT A PLACE… PFFFF

In the mean time the hunt for my own place continues. I lack privacy, miss my independence. My dream dot on the horizon is still this:

I have been following a few van lifers, and I really want to give it a go. I don’t know if it will be a Hymer or a converted camper van like a Mercedes Sprinter or a larger (and taller VW) but I want to somehow make travel with my pets for a year or two happen. I know freedom is mostly a mind set to be achieved regardless of where we are, but oooffff… I have felt pretty stuck and imprisoned for a while now (as the result of some “bad choices and even more bad luck” so nobody to blame for that but myself…but still…ouch).

One of the things I find hard to deal with, let alone share at the moment, is money. I have never been “good with it” and have always chosen experiences over possessions.

I have a make do and mend mentality, but it has its limits. Now with barely any income I do feel a hint of panic for the future. Housing is impossible these days, especially with limited funds. I have faith that I will bounce back and will be able to work again. I even have faith that my writing will take me to new places, if I stick with it (and I will - it is the only commitment and priority I have beyond health and love). But that’s all a long game. I crave space now…

There is also some shitty house karma to clear out first. Over the years my failed attempts to build myself a home, that came with a lot of financial loss through theft, mistakes and dishonesty have left a mark. Now with cancer I feel even more vulnerable. I posted on Facebook this week to ask if anyone had a juicer I could borrow or have. Not because I have this minimalist preference for second hand stuff, but because I literally have no money to get one. Not even second hand.

I will write more about it, after reading an article on what “poverty” means, for next week. It affects my self esteem to apply for benefits; even if it’s temporary to tie me over until better days. Underneath it all lies a handful of source memories that sabotage my self belief in the ability to provide for myself, and to create a home. I lack a sense of belonging, and a sense of what my talents, efforts and capabilities are worth.

Following through on this note: I have started looking for financial aid to get my psychosocial certificate. It seems utterly nuts to consider becoming a therapist under my current circumstances. But the giddy feeling hasn’t left me. Every time I think about taking that step, I feel excitement. Eager to explore, learn new things and apply them for the benefit of others. Yes, I still want this.

And if there is anything life affirming, it is exactly this.