Two: ramblings about playgrounds and theme parks.

Warning: I randomly use a park metaphor throughout this entry and I’m not sure why. I think I really miss being outside.

My life over the past three years has been pretty chaotic. Balancing my desire to succeed in a very demanding doctorate in clinical psychology with my desire to fulfil my social needs has been... challenging. In the interest of transparency, I’ll be totally honest in saying that whilst I generally live a healthy lifestyle and love the gym, celery, mindfulness and all that malarkey, I bloody love a drink with all my friends. I have had some absolutely hilarious, emotionally fulfilling, insightful and deeply connecting experiences with the people I love whilst supping G&Ts, prosecco, wine, espresso martinis and, when we’re really going for it, the odd shot of tequila (side note: I also have these experiences without alcohol but bear with me I’m going somewhere with this).

Initially, I felt like my whole being was split, spending my days on a relentless seesaw springing between the angel and the devil, the ideal and the rebel. On the occasions where I invested my free time in boozy social activity, I would reduce my hangover of guilt by working extra hard, writing off any free time during weeknights the following week and future weekends just to feel as though I was nurturing the angel in me more than the devil. But whilst going out made me feel guilty, it was my guilty pleasure. So I still went out. I just accepted the consequences. I was exhausted.

Over time, and probably through my increasing wisdom gained from the models of psychological theory that were an integral part of my everyday thinking at work, I began to realise the black and white categorisation of the good and bad version of me was inaccurate and unhelpful. My desires to succeed and my desires to be social are driven by my underlying values. I realised that is it just as important to nurture my drive to feel socially connected as it is to nurture my drive to succeed. I just needed to figure out how to do both. And with that, came discipline and routine.

I had multiple diaries. All colour coded. I had diary apps. I had ‘to do’ lists coming out my ears. I prioritised. I worked when I really needed to work. I planned ahead and thought about when I could socialise without guilt. Sometimes I had to miss out, sometimes I didn’t. I got good at the balance. I moved from a relentless seesaw to a swing, smoothly transitioning between my work life and personal life. That’s not to say I didn’t slip up sometimes and head straight back to that damn seesaw. But the swing is where I spent most of my time. It was still really tiring, but it was more manageable.

When I found out I had cancer, the swing came tumbling down and I fell to the ground. I was almost immediately signed off sick. Placement was deemed too risky for my mental and physical health. I was working with kids in a hospital setting, so risk of infection was high, and supporting mental health needs at a time where my own mental health was under so much pressure was, quite rightly, considered inappropriate. My registration at the university was temporarily suspended and I was no longer able to work on the research I had invested so much energy into for the past two and a half years. My diaries and to do lists meant nothing. It was painful to even look at them.

My lovely friend got me a new diary so I wasn’t faced with the constant reminder of what I should be doing. I started again. I thought about my values and thought about how to nurture them in these new and unexpected circumstances. I wrote all things cancer-related in pencil because this signified that cancer was not permanent. I wrote all the things I value in blue because blue is my favourite colour. I could no longer aim towards completing my doctorate at this time, but I could aim towards success in different ways. I could no longer have boozy times with my friends, but I could have hilarious, emotionally fulfilling, insightful and deeply connecting experiences in different ways. A unique opportunity to try different things.

I almost got back on the swing, ready for this novel challenge. But then came the second shittest C in my life - Coronavirus (I think C is my least favourite letter in the alphabet). My mind focused on all the things I couldn’t do and the loss of the absolute freedom I never noticed I had. I didn’t even bother with the swing. I had no idea what I was swinging between. I found my way to a roundabout, and I stubbornly stayed there. My thoughts numbed by the dizziness, the hours going round and round, endlessly, hopelessly aiming towards nothing.

I don’t know when I got off that roundabout. I think maybe it was a gradual process and I don’t think I spent too long there because its only on reflection that I realise I ever got on. The habits of discipline and routine that have been such an important aspect to the workability of my life have slowly resurfaced and, in all honesty, I feel better for it. I’ve made a new daily routine, carefully considering how to fill my days, making sure I’m not pushing myself too far and ensuring that all activities are meaningful enough to make me feel fulfilled. But I’ve had to adjust. The routine has to be flexible. The routine is temporary and might change. Nothing can be set in stone.

Old habits are hard to break. When I had the idea for this blog, the routine and discipline directed my thinking outside of my awareness. I instinctively began systematically entering my thinking into an excel spreadsheet and had it all planned out. I wanted the entries to be ordered by time. From my first post about the premise of the blog, to my diagnosis, to experiences of chemo, to experiences of surgery and so on. Today I’m meant to be writing about my diagnosis. The notes I wrote tell me to write about what happened, how I felt, what I did, who I spoke to. But my minds not there.

That’s when it hit me. Whilst I can use methods of routine and discipline to guide my days, this experience will absolutely not be systematic or predictable. Nothing will be set in stone. And with that, my ideas for the blog have changed. I want to be honest, transparent, and I want my emotion to be raw. I need to write about what’s going on for me in the moment. If it appears unorganised, that’s because it is unorganised. I think I’ve moved from a playground to a theme park and I’m on one hell of a rollercoaster. Its fast, it throws me in many directions. Its terrifying and I don’t know when the scary bits are coming. But it’s meant to be. Its ok that I feel this way.

Today I’m on the part of the rollercoaster where you slowly approach a sudden drop. You know when you have that feeling in your stomach, you know you’re about to fall but you don’t know when. I’m experiencing this in the context of hair loss. I’ve noticed more hair than usual (I usually malt a lot, it even broke my hoover) falling from my scalp. I’m wearing the cold cap whilst I have chemo in an attempt to save my hair, but it doesn’t always work. Even when it does work, hair typically still thins. I don’t know what’s going to happen, how much is going to fall out, when, how often, will it just thin, will it all fall out, what will I look like, what will people think of me, what will I think of myself, will I adjust, will I hate it the whole time, when will it grow back, how long will it take, will I suit short hair? So many unknowns, so much uncertainty, no answers. My mind is busy and full of thoughts that don’t make me feel good. I’m trying to work through them. I’m going to dedicate a blog post to them so that I can do just that. I think it might be my next one. But it might not. I’m embracing the flexibility.

And whilst I work through the anxiety, I can’t help but think to myself that, despite the fear, I would describe myself as a person who likes rollercoasters. I wont lie, I’m a nervous queuer. I sometimes even consider dropping out and I ask multiple times about how safe people think this really is. But I persist, I get to the front of the line and I step into my seat (and I check the safety belt approximately 15 times). I scream and swear and cling on for dear life throughout the ride. But when I get off I feel exhilarated and alive and slightly hysterical but it feels good. It’s scary but worth it and when I go back to the queue to go on again my nerves are a distant memory. A nice reminder that whilst there’s fear for me right now, there’s still the opportunity for joy and growth. Amongst the rubbish feelings I’ve felt today, I listened to music that made me happy, Matt made me laugh, I received an email which made me feel excited and motivated for future opportunities, I had a nice zoom meeting. Whilst I’m on a cancer journey, I’m still living. I still get to have good times. I notice them and I appreciate those times more than ever. I plan to step off this rollercoaster, and when I do I’ll feel exhilarated and alive and probably slightly hysterical, but it will feel good. And I won’t be half as scared if I ever have to step back on this rollercoaster or a different one. I'll be stronger. More resilient. That’s the beauty in the c-weed.