I used to write poems when I was younger. I’m pretty sure that they were horrible. I was always writing about some boy who may or may not have liked me and how my love was unrequited and while I’m sure it felt meaningful at the time, I look back at that and think, “was this for real?” The problems we create in high school seem so much bigger than us, and no one understands, no one can possibly be going through the same thing, yadda yadda yadda. As time passed, I found that I had less words to put into rhyming couplets. My problems had become deeper but I was also more removed from them. If someone asked me to write a flowing poem about the death of my grandmother, I wouldn’t be able to do it. She was far more meaningful and special to me than any high school boyfriend. But while I could compare the hurt of being broken up with to a gaping black hole in my soul (hey, I never said I was original) I really couldn’t find the words to deal with her dying. I know that a piece of me died when she did, but at the same time, I couldn’t put into any sort of form of what that really meant. I still probably can’t.

When I started this blog, I was hoping to get out on paper what it felt like to be going through cancer, surviving cancer and then just, well, surviving. I never felt that no one knew what it must felt like. Quite the opposite—I figured there would be tons of people with whom I could nod my head and say, “exactly”. My friends who never heard me express anything about my illness would read about my experience and gain a deeper insight into not just my journey, but their own or anyone else that they would meet along the way. But sometimes, just like above, I find myself falling short of the words to truly express either the joy or the pain of what is happening. And again, I find myself with endless paragraphs about unrequited love, although not as poetic but at least much more realistic. It’s funny, I’m so excited to not be writing about cancer, even if relates to my cancer in a tangential way, because I feel as if it’s something others beyond this little world I’ve created can relate to. But I wonder if it’s because I want to put all my effort into something that in reality doesn’t really matter all that much to me. I think we all do it. Put up those fronts to the rest of the world, hoping that if we can find those commonalities, we’ll never have to really discuss what makes us so different. I mean, I refuse to believe that people only think about the most shallow of bar discussions on a constant basis, even if that’s all you ever hear them talk about. But these barriers we create, hidden by topics of no substance, but are things that we can go on and on about, things that always provoke some sort of endless conversation. That’s always what attracts me to people. The minute they let down that barrier, even for a brief moment, that softening of their persona, I’m intrigued. It’s like you’re really seeing someone and they’re really seeing you and all the pretense and the lies are gone, and I feel like, yes, finally, I can say something to an actual person instead of just writing it and being removed from it. But the moment passes, and the walls go back up and maybe I spend the rest of my time looking for that moment again when you can really connect about things that matter. But it’s probably not appropriate to discuss with most people that you meet. It doesn’t even necessarily have to be depressing, just meaningful, but it doesn’t matter, I guess. Not all the time anyway.

So, that’s just something I’ve observed lately. As I start to participate more, I’m also finding myself saying less. Becoming obsessed with talking about those topics that have little relevance in the grand scheme of things, but then I don’t have to worry about discussing the latest test or the how I had to go for an echo cardiogram on my day off. But I don’t think I’m doing anyone any favors by forgetting the reason that I started this blog. Or maybe, this is what happens when you become more removed from treatment, your cancer becomes the core section of your life, but you also become less and less attached to it. It doesn’t rule your life, it just touches it. I’m not sure.