There’s a lot I could write here. This is a story, a back story if you will, of this final culmination of loss of joy for life. You don’t have to read it all. I’ll probably sum it all up in the last paragraph, so if you get bored, I won’t be offended if you skip ahead.
To the outside world, especially social media, I’m sure I seem peachy.
Sunny photos running with my dogs, enjoying an occasional craft beer, and lots of meme reposts.
Of course, social media is doing nothing for what I’m actually going through, and it’s actually sucking the life out of me. I think it’s sucking the life out of all of us. Seeing others living life to the fullest, plastic smiles, and happy endings… Yep. It’s all fake.
Growing up in Utah (not Mormon) probably didn’t help my self-esteem. I didn’t fit in, boys were told to stay away from me, and I was quite the little fat girl until my freshman year in High School. It took a lot for me to grow into my own skin. I had multiple eating disorders, body dysmorphia, angsty poetry about feeling alone all the time, cutting, crying, and self-destructive behavior… blah blah blah. I fought through it, and I came out on top. Not really on top, but better than I was.
Then at 24, I made a mistake and got married. Not only did I get married, I married a “jack Mormon” (Mormon who doesn’t really follow the book) who promised he didn’t care that his Bishop (Church leader and counsel) told me I was bad for him and to steer very clear. My soon-to-be hubby also struggled with Bipolar disorder and took anti-psychotics. I thought I had enough love to “fix” him. I didn’t.
He lied to me about every vice he indulged in during our short marriage. It started with lying about porn (which I tried to be ok with), then cigarettes, then he found his drug of choice: alcohol. This was all in the first 4 years of marriage. I begged him to just be honest with me, but he always lied again. Finally, I told him, “If you lie to me again, it’s over.” I literally had to get the proof to get him to admit he had been lying, so when I showed him pictures of hidden handles of whiskey, he put on a show as a last-ditch effort to keep me and pretended to try and kill himself. I (at 110lbs) had to “wrestle” a knife out of his hands. Once I called his mother and told her he was a threat to himself, I told him I was taking a job in another state, and we were done.
I don’t know why he self-medicated. I didn’t care. I just wanted a husband to love me unconditionally and be honest with me. So, while we were married, I threw myself into work. It felt good to inspire young people, and accomplish tasks that seemed impossible to others. I was on fire. It wasn’t a great job, but I was great at it. I was a workaholic. I wanted to always be financially independent.
I grew up with a single mom, a biological dad who made little to no effort, and a physically and mentally abusive stepmom. Everything I had was second hand, and my mom worked 40 hours a week to be able to afford that cabbage patch doll I wanted. I don’t remember her name, but I took really good care of her, and my cousins drew all over her face with a permanent marker. I even washed my hands before I played with my stuffed animals. I wanted nice things, and to keep them nice, because I appreciated everything.
Now, I HATE money. I need it, I want it, and I hate both of those facts. It’s like I can never get enough. I can never dig myself out of this financial hole of low paying jobs that squeeze you dry of all your passion and energy, then replace you when you get too expensive. With rent, electric bills, gas bills, groceries, gas, etc., there is hardly anything left to enjoy.
I even pay $800 a month for insurance from Kaiser which has a piss-poor mental health program. The only breakthrough I had was once in group therapy when I was able to talk through my problems and actually feel heard and not pandered to. When I admitted I was suicidal to my therapist, they had to ask me every day If I was going to be safe from self-harm. I mean, when I would leave every day, it was easy to lie about feeling better so I didn’t have to check-in and call to let them know I was safe or the police would be sent to my home. Being suicidal is hard to explain to friends and family but, being admitted to a mental institution… well, that is a real blemish on your record. Like being Bi-polar. Or having cancer. Fuck me, right?
So, I went through the motions. I followed the group therapy plan. I went to therapy every week. I talked about my problems. I had small breakthroughs, and some days I felt worse. I thought I was getting better, I really did.
Then the shit news came. I waited to have kids. I thought I’d feel ready. It never felt right with my ex-husband. But, then it never felt right afterward either. So, when I started bleeding uncontrollably during my periods, through super plus tampons and pads within 15 minutes, through my pants, onto car seats, onto random chairs… I knew something was very wrong inside of me.
Ten years prior, I was admitted to the hospital with severe abdominal pain after taking the morning-after pill. I had a blood clot(?) the size of a lime fall out of me. The pain was so bad, I thought I was actually dying. Now, I’m not a pansy. I work my ass off in everything I do. I’m not afraid of getting dirty, I do physical activities well beyond my abilities just to prove the haters wrong, and I push through pain. This pain has only been trumped by one other, and it was a biopsy during an exam.
I went into Emergency. The doctors did a CT scan (which I threw up inside due to the meds and my extreme claustrophobia from my cousins locking me in a toy chest when I was 5), and all they could tell me was that I had endometriosis. I trusted them. They said they were scheduling me for a laparoscopy. When I went on the day of the surgery, they said it was a mistake and I didn’t really need it. I felt defeated, but I just let it go. I let my fucking health go, because I probably didn’t want to know, and I KNOW I couldn’t afford it. I put my health at the bottom of my priority list. This was absolutely the biggest mistake of my life.
Back to the shit news: 8 years later, 8 ultrasounds (all kinds), 5 MRI’s ($1000 deductible), the most excruciating vaginal sample grab during a gynecological exam (I passed out for the first time), and 4 laparoscopies ($1000 dollar deductible each), wish resulted in 2 inconclusive samples, 1 positive for cancer cells, and 1 sample that literally had to be sent to Stanford for examination from an expert who STILL couldn’t tell me what kind of mass was in my uterus. The doctors decided it was a uterine sarcoma… In layman’s terms, uterine cancer.
My oncologist even met with 5 other doctors, and they are all pushing for a hysterectomy because with this particular uterine sarcoma, it’s likely hormone triggered and it will metastasize during a pregnancy. They cannot remove it due to likely damage to the uterus and removal is inevitable in this case. BTW, I just turned 37 years old.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t stop feeling this intense pressure to die. I can’t see a future without being able to have a child. I always thought that would be the ONE way I could contribute to the future of our world with goodness and love. I know all about eggs, surrogates, adoption, etc. They are all options. They should give me hope, but they don’t. I don’t believe in myself.
Maybe this is “God” or whoever’s way of telling me I’m not meant to be a mother. Maybe this is punishment for all of the horrible things I’ve done in my life; Lying to my parents, cheating on a boyfriend, giving up on a marriage. Maybe I deserve to be punished like this. Maybe I deserve to feel unloved. Maybe I make this world worse and more unhappy just by being in it.
I can’t stop feeling it. I can’t stop crying. I’ve tried medications, meditation, therapy, focusing on the good things.. Nothing helps. I don’t want to live. I can’t even picture my future past every day.
There this place in California. It’s an inpatient mental health hospital that doesn’t list anything as being institutionalized. It’s really expensive, and of course, insurance doesn’t cover any of it. Plus, I have no idea how long it will take for me to make a decision about having a hysterectomy, or just letting cancer eat my body. I know its stupid. I want to appreciate the good things in life. It’s like I have glasses on with the lenses painted black. I need help. My family can’t afford it. I can’t afford it. I need help. I need this. Even if it’s the only thing to look forward to.
Just so you know where your help would be going:
$7,000 inpatient program for a week.
$3,000 for one month’s bills
$4,800 in unpaid medical bills
I’m literally begging for help.