Living in denial, believing that everything that was happening was nothing but a dream, helped cope with the day to day. The devastation seemed all too unreal to fathom that it could be anything but. I was waiting, putting on hold, truly waiting to wake up.
The day that reality set in was the day that I was diagnosed. It felt like the messenger had taken a sword through me and let me walk away punctured. It felt like a slow bleed. My mind was in shock. I didn’t believe what I had just been told. I was leaving the messenger, on my way back to home and I couldn’t breathe. I could feel the crumble of the past months piling on top of me. Choking me with the weight of it all. It took a while before I could even really cry about it. There had been so many tears in the beginning because I didn’t understand what was happening. Now that I had a glimpse of understanding, it should have felt better, shouldn’t it?
Was the truth worse than waiting for the wake up? For a time, it felt like it. The holding pattern I had been in seemed to continue no matter how I plotted to end it. There had been uncertainty before as to where my life could take me. Now there was uncertainty about what this all really meant. It wasn’t going to be an imminent death sentence, but it almost felt like that would have been better. Then I would have an end in site. This just felt like an abrupt end with no light to guide me to the next chapter.
What was I going to do in the next chapter? I had no idea. I was still a shell. I had no life essence. I had no meaning. I had no direction. How was I supposed to grow from nothing? I had lost everything by this point, but a few basic possessions. What was I going to do? Being a shell, I felt that I had nothing to build on. Like building a home made of straw. I wasn’t even enough to be considered flimsy straw.