The morning is the most difficult time of day.
The morning is when I wake gripped with fear, my heart seized with terror at the thought of waking up, getting out of bed, living through the day.
It’s hard to describe the fear to those who haven’t lived it. If you haven’t lived it, I don’t know how you could possibly imagine it. So don’t comfort me, don’t tell me it’s going to be okay, don’t give me advice.
The fear happens after something terrible happens to you when it’s not supposed to. I was about to graduate residency, about to start a promising career, in a great (so I thought) relationship that was supposed to lead to marriage and children.
Now I wake up and I feel afraid because I know how unsure my footing really is, how anything can be taken away, how nothing is secure. I feel afraid because I feel sick, and I feel pain, and I don’t know how much more I can stand before my spirit is broken.
I’m near the end of my intensive chemotherapy (and possibly past the end if I decide not to continue with the last round), but with that relief comes the fear—with the end the fear rises—because now what is there to think about besides how horrible this thing is that’s happened to me? Now I supposedly start the process of healing, but the fear tells me there’s nothing left inside of me to heal.
The fear is like a thick fog that has settled on my chest, heaving and heavy, like a dull weight on my soul.
I know someday the fog will lift, but when it does there will be a different woman underneath, because this woman will know what it feels like to have been broken.