Fine print, small print, or "mouseprint" is less noticeable print. Smaller than the more obvious larger print, it accompanies, advertises or otherwise describes a commercial product, service, or state of mind.
My fine print is rather bold. It reads:
Chemo, solo, sucks.
That's my truth. That's why I haven't posted in weeks.
If I don't spin sunshine and honey out of this debauchery, my reality is difficult to digest. I am your worst nightmare.
Right now, most of what flows from my heart and my head is counterproductive.
Right now, I'm squatting in a vat of self-pity, self-loathing and self-punishment.
THIS POST CONTAINS HOLIDAY DISDAIN
I hate the holidays. Always have.
Under the best of circumstances, the pressure to be merry and grateful is exhausting.
I don't like to be told what to do, or how to act, so I resist shopping and forced expressions of gratitude.
DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT MOON WALKING OUT
They say you lose friends along the way. That your cancer beats them down. I certainly hope that's not true. I need everyone. Every single one of you.
MEN ARE NOT THE ANSWER
I need to learn how to love myself. And my love of self has nothing to do with how desirable and irresistible you, with penis, think I am.
Clearly, after 54 years and three failed marriages, I am a slow learner.
What angers me the most are the choices I made that brought me here. And the reality that most of my pain is self-inflicted.
I AM TIRED OF BEING STRONG
I adored my father.
"Don't look back," my father would say after each of my failed relationships.
And yet here I am, fixated on the rearview mirror.
LOOK ... that's ME ... back when I was healthy. Back when I thought my marriage was strong. Back when my smile said it all.
I don't know for certain who ME is anymore but I know that ME is not my cancer.
DO NOT DEFINE ME BY MY ILLNESS.
RESPECT MY STRUGGLE
AND WHERE I LONG TO BE.
whoever that may be
For a complete list of my ridiculous cancer journey click HERE