cancer – day 218

I started to take the Jeep to the reservoir and then decided that wasn’t such a good idea. It’s only a few miles, but with Rubi garaged all this time as a non-operating uninsured-to-save-money vehicle, I decided it was better to avoid any potential difficulties, and drove down to the little lake that borders my property instead. I walked down here once a couple months ago, and got lost on my way back and was so exhausted I slept for hours afterward. The Jeep trail around the outside of my property to get to this little lake has gotten really overgrown. But I love that. The rougher the road, the fewer the people and the less disturbed to forest.

I wanted to be near a body of water. I’ve been having a hard time, feeling like I don’t have any strength left to keep pushing through the neuropathy pain and radiation fatigue, and I have to get it from somewhere, because it’s not over yet and there’s more I have to go through.

I don’t always feel weak exactly, but I often feel like I don’t have any strength left these days. It’s a strange kind of completely-worn-out feeling. It’s like I can’t quite believe myself when I tell people all the things you’re supposed to assure people of when you’re in cancer treatment: I’m doing ok, it’s almost over, I’m hanging in there, I’m going to be fine.

I’ve been wondering for quite a while now what “fine” really means, and when I’ll actually be there. (Like, what if the neuropathy is permanent and I can never dance pain-free again? That is my most scary thought.) If I could just get my head and emotions around it I’d probably decide that being “fine” is a state of mind and is whatever you make of it. But then I wonder about specifics. Here I sit in this place of peace and beauty, but I’m sitting here alone. That used to be fine, that used to be great, but after the last six months I worry that coming back to this quiet life would just be hiding out, away from all the people and challenges of being “fine” so I don’t create any negative energy or bring anyone else “down.” I used to think that, since I was at dance stuff and therefore with people practically all weekend and the nights that I taught, then being out at my home was a time to recharge. But it’s undeniably also an escape, and I wonder if I don’t do that too much.

I seem to live my life in big chunks, rather than little segments, in terms of people time. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. My time with other people is generally in terms of many hours or days, because it’s impractical to drive two hours each way for a one-hour lunch in Sac, for example. Or like at a weekend-long swing convention, which I used to do multiple times a month – when you’re dancing for nearly two days you can justify the travel time to be there. And then I’d have a few or several days at home in the forest to “recharge.” But other people don’t seem to need that. I get the impression it would make a lot of people crazy actually, all the quiet nights out here. Maybe it’s being alone that would make them crazy. I never used to get lonely out here. But I really don’t know how I could live in a city with lots of traffic and people all the time. And to do it part time in both places like with two homes just seems infeasible. And then I’ve come full circle to wondering where I belong and where I should be, and how that may have changed with the experiences of the past six months. I used to think I was good at living in or appreciating the moment, but now I have so many days like this where I feel kind of lost in life. I forget to breathe.

Right now the lake is calm while the trees speak with the wind and scent the air with purity. Life is everywhere. That’s something I need to remind myself of. This is a place and a moment I need to remember when I run out of strength.