#no longer happen as much . i will miss it but also i miss Wlaking on my own. so | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

letterstoocean · 8 years ago

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my ocean,

here is the cancer story. in the raw but for you. i love you my ocean.

I was afraid of my own words, my own thoughts, the things I would create. Afraid they would not be the fairy tale that I wanted life to be.

And I kept running away from all of it. Even saying to myself that you cannot run awayf rom yourself because yourself is still there. And yet I ekpt doing it.

It was what I knew. Was how I raised. “wake up baby. It is time to go”

Embracing the gypsy bohemian life followed a path that at times was a path of thorns. But still I refused to do anything believing it that who is I am. That is the only thing I would ever know.

I was afraid and I kept running.

Until I could no longer run. I finally had to face myself because myself was dying. One of the most terrifying experiences of my life. When I say that I am not sure if I mean myself or the cancer. There are times I believe it was the same thing.

But I had to decide which way I wanted to go.

It got to a point that all I did was lay in the air stream covered in sweat taking 18 medications that really were not working on masking things and consatntly covered in sweat and crying.

I would wake up by the toilet becuasthe cancer would trigger the fibormyalgia and they would dance with one another, my mind and body being their dance floor.Ro keep curling into a ball doing nothing and feeling worse and worse everyday. The fibromyalgia making every thought like another nail in a coffin that I was treating like my bed.

The cancer in me felt like I was constantly unclean. I would sit for hours in a tub as hot as I could stand trying to sweat out a feeling that would just not go away.

The world to me was a shadow that was slowly creeping around me. No light. Nothing looked beautiful Finding happiness was like pulling teeth. So stopped looking for it.

One ngith I woke up next to the toilet laying in my own vomit. I automatially reached for a pain killer to hopefully give me some sort of relief if only for a moment and the boy in me screamed at the top of his lungs.

“No!!!!. This is it. I did not survive everything we went through just to die here on the foor because you wont get the fuck up. Get! The! Fuck! Up!”

That boy. That boy was my voice of reason. The boy iwas ahsamed of. Wanted to go away. At times I ahted. Was now the one thing that actually made me stop and stare at the bottle. Stare at the vomit on the floor. Look up on the shelf at all the medications. All the empty bottles everywhere. And I looked around the airstream and realzied it was becoming my tomb. And it was starting to smell like a tomb.

Aside from my smell of sick and sweat. The sink was full of dishes that I would not clean. The trash cans were full and were stinking. I didnt even bother washign my clothes. What was the point it was just me. No one would smell me. I was fucking dying.

As long as no one saw mne die there really wouldnt much of a problem.

And that boy saved me. After so many years I began to lsiten to him again. He was the survivor in me. He was the one that never gave up. He was the one that was my strength. My words.

I heard him whisper very getnly in me like he was talking to a scared child, “fidn the desire to create soemthing beautiful from so much pain. Do something good. Get up. You can do this.”

The next morning I dumped the bottle of vicodin down the toilet. I had to eigteen medicatiosn to quit and I was starting with pian killers first.

I slowlt wlaked out to the dead end like a zombie finding brains and looked own our dead end road, heard the boy in me smile and took a breath and said, “ok. Here we go.”

In the beginning I said if I could make it to the neighbors without passing out or puking I was doing great. The neighbor lived twenty yards away ish.

The first day I made it halfway there before I was throwing up in the ditch. I cralwed home crying and screaming tried to sleep.

Four hours after throwing my vicodin away I began to hate my decision and reached for an oxycontin.

“no!!!!” the boy screamed.

I slowly slid the bottle back. I went until that ngiht before the pain was too much and I wanted to die.

The next day I said the same thing.

Make it to the neighbors without puking.

I made it to the neighbors then puked. I stumbled and crawled back home tried to sleep four hours later with no sleep I reached for the oxycontin and again the boy screamed inside me wemt home and cried and slept all day.

The next day. Five more feet. The day after that even further.

On day three the withdrawals began and my nightmares had just begun.

This is when it was time to face the me that I had ran from all those years because it started to come in the ngithamres, the withdrawals the sahkes. It was my own living hell that I ahd created and now laid in a bed and want4ed to die but the boy refused to et that happen.

I was so alone. I would not go back gome to my friends I would not let them know what I was going through I ket my family at a distance. I had seen what cancer had doen tot hsoe around you it is almost harder for them tht is you because they feel so helpless at times and you just keep getting sick.

I. Was. Alone. And it was my choice. The boy was going to do this.

I needed soemthing just to talk to I needed touch. I am a hapless romantic at heart. I believe in energy. I believe in touch in all of it is various forms.

So I searched for the animal that called to me. I rescueda cat.

I answered an in a the local paper. I woma ran sort of a rescued cat thing out of her house.

I arrived told her my story and why I wanted the cat and she smiled, wiped tearsf rom her eyes and smiled, “i have your cat.” She took me to a backroom wehre there was a cat laying looking out the window. He was missing his tail, he just had a surgery from a broken leg, he had a chewed up ear and ;ppled at me blinked then rolled onto his abck for me to rub his belly.

He was definitly my cat.

I took him back tot he trailer, named him muse he we healed together.

Muse had to stay inside until he is leg healed. During the day he laid on me and sletp as I shivered convulsed and went through withdrawals.

If I ahd ro puke he would lay next to me at the toilet. Urr and ut a little paw n me.

At ngiht he wanted to go out and paced back and forth in the airstream. With hi bad leg there was a consatnt thump thump and this melodic purr click he did wanting me to let him out.

That purr click became what I focused on.

It became my music to get through the night.

Becasue the nights were horrible.

When he was able to walk ilet him out and he roamed the hillside charming the entire neighborhd. The entire road knew my story. Knew muses story and hwy I ahd bought him. And they would give me courage and keep an eye as I walked and healed. Muse following nehind me until he got the to the curve nefore the braidge. Dogs. And he would sit and wiat for me.

This went on for three months. In two or three days I would kick a medication move on to another one, move further on down the road until I finally made it to the end of the road and our bridge.

Once again a bridge in my life became a my savior. We lived on a dead end road and there was hardly any traffic. The bridge was where I would stop sometimes puke, but do it with hapiiness and smile that once again I made it to the bridge and all I ahd towas make it home.I would My

I also began to dance. Well attempt to dance.

I danced. And anced and danced. Ar first just in the airstream and only a step or two and then I would need the trash can or sink to puke.

I love dancing. My mom taught me and it was one fothe things we did together nad every time we did it was our happy place. A happy place among a chaos we had created and could not get away from.

And I rememebr that. Remebered the happy places that we really did not have many of, but the ones we did were so special to me.

I started filming myself to see hpw bad was. I wanted to see the enemy and I wanted him to defeat.

At the third motnhs I quit all meds. I was offically cancer free. And as I wlaked down the brdige I bgean to dance as well.

I was alive and I was doing this. I was coming back. I danced like I had never danced before. Headphones on I sang at the top of my lunf=gs and anced when the nighbors drove by singing to them with a smile as I kept walking down the road.

All the while muse was next to me.

I was so overwhelemed with life that I was that guy that go would say with a big smile “look a tree! My god that is the msot beauitful tree ever !! Air. Gof this air is so wonderful”

And my neighbors put upw ith it and cheered me on.

I believed I was immortal. And the wrold was mine

Then I got cancer a second time.

It ahd went form my thyroid to tmy lymphnodes and this time around cancer was pissed I ahd said I ahd kicked its ass and celebrated and this time around iw was ready and it was fight.

Again felt that darkness in me that feeling diry and the boy and I both said “nO!!!!”

All did was dance and walk write and paint trying to create everythin beautiful I possibly could from thais fucking apin.

It got to the poitn that I felt safe walking off of our dead end road and to down the highway through the redwoods eventually making it to the two and half mile geeral store.

And again I danced. I daned and daneced ans sang as cars passed by me. At first thinking I was a madman. Ut after awhile cheering me on and some people even stopping and telling me how seeing me dance every morning made theor day better.

And then I knew I was doing some good. Not just for but for tohers.

This went on for three months. In two or three days I would kick a medication move on to another one, move further on down the road until I finally made it to the end of the road and our bridge.

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