“Ladies and gentleman, we bring to you tonight – live in Heidi’s crazy mind and NOT for one night only – put your hands together and give a warm welcome to the disease dip……”
It’s tune starts to play as I prepare dinner for my family. I feel my mind crack a little – quite subtle really. I’m going through the motions in my kitchen fully aware that the disease dip is leaking in. I’m quiet at the table. It is noticed. Doing my best to avoid the muted pull I eat my food (I was starving again) and then I am ushered outside to ‘relax’. I do as I am told.
The sun is taking it’s time to set and its lending its warm orange glow to our garden. Its so peaceful out here. I haven’t noticed the stark green grass for some time. Life is everywhere. In the air, in the cracks of the paving stones. But not in me right now.
My husband puts his arm around me and I feel my resistance. He wants to know what’s wrong. I do not know how to tell him the disease dip is on centre stage. He might not have front row tickets but he notes my lack of presence. I, on the other hand, have VIP tickets tonight.
I feel so lonely and scared. I feel like the cancer is taking the piss out of me – lulling me into a false sense of security – letting me ‘think’ I am OK. Managing well. You’ve got to stop yourself from looking over your shoulder in case the sneaky bastard is behind you. Ready to pounce and f*** you over.
Crying helps. “Crying is healing” I often share with my clients. We cry to feel, to release and to recover.
I cry because I don’t know what else to do with the pounding beat of emotions that dance to a heavy beat in my body.
Tonight I am missing me. I’m missing wine, and my busy life.
I’m going to find the nearest box of Zopiclone and get the hell out of here.