I’m okay with other people’s mucus. In truth, I seek it out. I’m a helper. So, I’m okay with difficult truths, with hard and painful and ugly bits. I’m not good with reciprocity. The facts of existence, I’ll share. The ugly bits underneath, the feelings, not so much. They remain locked up tight. I venture forth occasionally but only after much thought and only after I’ve braced for injury. Because sharing my feeling is not what we do in my various groups.

It’s hard to leave your assigned role.

I’m the source of aid. I am the share-ee, not the sharer.

It worries me sometimes that I lock up my feelings. As I explained to my counsellor, however, sharing on my part requires a level of caretaking of my listeners. I can’t not do it, not care about their feelings, care about how my things are affecting them. And I don’t want that right now. I don’t want to be forced to take care of other people.

But my unwillingness to be free with my mucus is making for a difficult morning. That and the conviction that I’m old with a wasted life and will die alone, lonely, and unlamented. Quite the mood drop from the up of last week that saw me dancing in my kitchen. Part of me is darkly amused.

Stability of mood can be a challenge for me; it’s probably why the doctor makes me take the little green pills I tend to play fast and loose with.

It’s not that I object to mood stability. I object to the side effects. That’s irony because when I started taking meds decades ago, I experienced few problems. That led to smugness towards those who struggled. “Suck it up,” I’d think. “How bad can it be?”

It can be bad. Unfortunately, I’m also not enjoying the consequences of diminished dosing, the aforementioned mood-swing.

Anxiety is running around concurrently, making things worse. It likes to do that.

There’s a small possibility that the source of the mood drop and the heightened anxiety is attributable to a specific thing rather than the random cruelty of an unjust universe or the problematic pill-taking. I wonder now about the consequences of my decision to not share this information with people and my feelings about it. But only a little. Despite the sadness.

I’m going for a mammogram on Monday. A year ago, I wouldn’t have given that sentence a second thought. Then again, a year ago I was going for a different kind of mammogram. Just a regular screening. This one is a diagnostic mammogram. You skip baseline screening once you’ve had breast cancer.

I’m nervous. I’m scared. I’m not thrilled with the current state of my health. I’m also not sure if the problems are real or a function of anxiety, depression, and conversion. Which doesn’t make the symptoms any less problematic but can change the course and direction treatment takes.

I’m hoping the doctor peering inside my breast early next week will make casual conversation and ask me how I’m doing. Then I can unload about my concerns and maybe get a blood test. Or some Ativan. I can’t tell anymore which will serve best. 

*in case you were wondering about the connection between the header image and the post, there isn’t one. I usually try to make a connection but I didn’t want any part of a Google search featuring the word “mucus” and I happen to quite like zinnias.