Marshmallow brain

I was just thinking about how you are never ready for a wave of depression. You never know when to expect it. You never know how to handle it. And then I realised that it's been almost 10 years since my first and only attempt at actually doing something about my mental health.

I don't know if that attempt was a success. Covid and a few other things complicated matters and I let go of the thought of seeking help. Professional help. I did consider it a few times since, so maybe I haven't given up hope completely, but knowing me, it's quite unlikely.

And of course, I don't even have it that bad. My brain behaves for the most part. And when it doesn't, I either get moody and cry in my room or get a bit drunk and behave a bit recklessly. It's mostly okay. The recklessness isn't too bad. It's never something I regret.

But you know, I'm in my 30s now. I think it's fair to ask that the universe let me be. That I'm allowed to just exist; go about my day, live my life, not have to always watch out for what I refer to as marshmallow brain.

I was telling a friend recently that I don't write anymore, and she asked me how I dealt with my feelings. I joked that arrack helps, but the truth, I think, is that I've gotten so used to living with this body and brain given to me that not dealing with my feelings is easier. Not questioning things is easier. Not trying to make things better is easier.

Because when you try to fix things, get over things, that's when a tiny little bubble of hope makes its way through the mess that is your life. And hope, lord. Hope is the worst, isn't it?

When I was undergoing chemotherapy a while back, my doctor told me that four sessions, three weeks apart will be enough. I made it through the first. And I told myself I was one fourth of the way to the end. Then I made it through the second session and rejoiced that I was halfway there. What hope. Just two more sessions and I would be done.

And then my doctor told me I needed to undergo a total of six sessions just to be sure. I did it. I completed all six, but how do you have any hope after that?

My doctor says that things look good. It's been three years. He writes 'no complaints' when I see him, first once a month, then every other month, and now every three months. 'No complaints' looks good on paper. Anyone who follows me on Twitter would of course disagree.

I need to make it to five years without anything unusual in my tests. And then I'd get the all clear from my doctor and never have to see him again. But wait... That's not right. "Even when you aren't seeing me, you need to get an echocardiogram once a year," he told me.

So, it doesn't even in five years. It never ends. I will always be a sick, or rather, once-sick person. I will always carry this illness with me.

And to make things worse... Well, I was going to type that 10% of those with lymphoma can get it again. I checked again and the internet says: "About 80 percent of those under age 55 will live for five years or more."

If I'm in this 80%, I have 2 more years guaranteed, but then what? Is that it?

Now this is something I haven't really spoken about with anyone. I've spent the past couple of years in absolute fear. Anything and everything wrong with my body could be a sign that the cancer is back. That's how I google symptoms now. Is my sudden hair loss a lymphoma symptom? Is the redness of a mosquito bite a symptom? Are these headaches? Aches and pains?

I'd like to think I'll be reading this post five or 10 years from now and berating myself for being such a pessimist. But who knows? Who knows what this stupid universe has in store for me/us?