(no subject)

Last night we saw an impressively bad movie. Tom Cruise must think he looks really good running and smashing his head into heavy objets at high speed. And it wasn't good because it was so bad, but it wasn't bad enough to be unenjoyable. And it feels like it has been forever since I went and saw something in a movie theater.

I did things yesterday. I made muffins, and put away laundry, and cleaned the kitchen, and worked with the 18month backlog of filing. I discovered a weird, clunky fix for whatever bizarre thing I'm doing to the keyboard of the new computer. (Somehow, I turn on something like num-lock, and I can't type anymore because all the keys function as though I was holding down control. But if I go into the onscreen keyboard, click options, turn on numlock there and then turn it off again, the problem goes away.)

Today, however, I'm just sitting on the couch, headachy and intermittently weepy. We went and saw my plastic surgeon this morning. She is very pleased with my healing, and says that I'm going to 'go in her book' which is an book full of headless before and after pictures of women who have had reconstructive surgery.

But, somehow, having her confirm that yes, I ended up smaller than I started destroyed me. (ooo, crying again). And I am in a fantastic little storm of self-pity and loathing where I always felt a little bit that even having the reconstructive surgery was weak (not for others, just for me) if I was going to make the choice to lop my breasts off, I should be prepared to face every consequence, every scar and every stumbling block. It wasn't like I had cancer, it wasn't even that I knew with certainty I was going to get cancer, so that means it's optional, and if it's optional, I shouldn't have gone forward with it unless I was prepared to face the consequences. And since it was optional, I really shouldn't be so gauche as to be sad about any of it.

I thought I was doing so well. I was living with the uncomfortable tissue expanders, I was being cheerful, I was being productive, I was cracking jokes about how no one should tell me if they look smaller. And yet, here I am, completely devastated that the thing I thought would be frosting to the not-getting-cancer cake isn't going to happen. (I have the largest medical implants currently on the market).

The word fair makes me wince and flail. If there is any cosmic idea of fair, than somehow it was fair that this happened, that everything happened, and I am a bad person, but there's still this glimmer of hope that if I can just figure out what I'm doing wrong, bad things won't happen anymore. And if there's no such thing as fair, than there's absolutely no way I can ever even be a little bit safe.

(and I feel like I shouldn't complain anymore, because I got here, and I'm married with an awesome life, but holy hells does this crap still hurt. I want to burn my wardrobe, never leave my house, cancel christmas, all those things that I joked about after the first surgery but didn't do.)

I'll find my game face, I'll buy expensive push-up bras, I'll make this work. I just don't know where to put all this fucking sadness, and the only tools I can find to deal with it at the moment are all the ones from my poor-coping-skills tool box.

(no subject)

Last night we saw an impressively bad movie. Tom Cruise must think he looks really good running and smashing his head into heavy objets at high speed. And it wasn't good because it was so bad, but it wasn't bad enough to be unenjoyable. And it feels like it has been forever since I went and saw something in a movie theater.

I did things yesterday. I made muffins, and put away laundry, and cleaned the kitchen, and worked with the 18month backlog of filing. I discovered a weird, clunky fix for whatever bizarre thing I'm doing to the keyboard of the new computer. (Somehow, I turn on something like num-lock, and I can't type anymore because all the keys function as though I was holding down control. But if I go into the onscreen keyboard, click options, turn on numlock there and then turn it off again, the problem goes away.)

Today, however, I'm just sitting on the couch, headachy and intermittently weepy. We went and saw my plastic surgeon this morning. She is very pleased with my healing, and says that I'm going to 'go in her book' which is an book full of headless before and after pictures of women who have had reconstructive surgery.

But, somehow, having her confirm that yes, I ended up smaller than I started destroyed me. (ooo, crying again). And I am in a fantastic little storm of self-pity and loathing where I always felt a little bit that even having the reconstructive surgery was weak (not for others, just for me) if I was going to make the choice to lop my breasts off, I should be prepared to face every consequence, every scar and every stumbling block. It wasn't like I had cancer, it wasn't even that I knew with certainty I was going to get cancer, so that means it's optional, and if it's optional, I shouldn't have gone forward with it unless I was prepared to face the consequences. And since it was optional, I really shouldn't be so gauche as to be sad about any of it.

I thought I was doing so well. I was living with the uncomfortable tissue expanders, I was being cheerful, I was being productive, I was cracking jokes about how no one should tell me if they look smaller. And yet, here I am, completely devastated that the thing I thought would be frosting to the not-getting-cancer cake isn't going to happen. (I have the largest medical implants currently on the market).

The word fair makes me wince and flail. If there is any cosmic idea of fair, than somehow it was fair that this happened, that everything happened, and I am a bad person, but there's still this glimmer of hope that if I can just figure out what I'm doing wrong, bad things won't happen anymore. And if there's no such thing as fair, than there's absolutely no way I can ever even be a little bit safe.

(and I feel like I shouldn't complain anymore, because I got here, and I'm married with an awesome life, but holy hells does this crap still hurt. I want to burn my wardrobe, never leave my house, cancel christmas, all those things that I joked about after the first surgery but didn't do.)

I'll find my game face, I'll buy expensive push-up bras, I'll make this work. I just don't know where to put all this fucking sadness, and the only tools I can find to deal with it at the moment are all the ones from my poor-coping-skills tool box.