I’m suppose to be writing about my past, my childhood. Reflecting on how other’s life choices effected my past, but on the eve of test to see if I might have breast cancer, I can’t stop thinking about what my future might look like. How procrastination will adversely effect my children. I’m so fucking angry at just the possibility that I might have breast cancer, I’m also sad.
Growing up I never heard “you sure look like your momma!” I was my Grams’ baby. I looked like her and acted like her. “You look like your mother” belongs to my sister. But on the eve of my test the reality that I might have inherited this from my maternal linage, becoming the 4th generation to have breast cancer sucks.
What’s crazy, I’m sitting here feeling extremely alone. I put in such a great front of acting unfazed and strong, I have no one to talk to or distract me from my thoughts. What is scaring me even more, is the idea that I might have passed this on to my daughter.
I’ve always allowed myself a limited time to wallow in my sorrows. I think it’s from suffering from clinical and postpartum depression. Depression can be like quicksand, trying to fight out of its grips is exhausting until one day you realized you stopped fighting and time has no meaning. I give myself anywhere from 5-30 minutes to throw myself a pity party. I keep groping at my right breast, trying to feel what showed up on my mammogram.
Meanwhile, trying to invoke my super power – If I can imagine it, it can’t happen. Basically, if I can visualize every bad scenario, it won’t happen. Reading this, I know you’re thinking “this bitch is crazy, but it was that super power that got my mom home every night after working a late shift while taking the bus home. It’s also why I nothing really bad happened to us while living in the Robert Taylor projects, and what is keeping my husband and children safe.
Well my 10 minutes are up, pity party is over.
#breastcancer #deliberatelydope #fear 
Deliberately dope 