New post!

Hi All!

I just wanted to share a link to my website where you can find more of my current writing!  I posted a brand spankin’ new entry yesterday!  PLEASE CHECK IT OUT!


<3

To the Big Green Bedroom

Last weekend I went home to Syracuse for the first time in a while--3 months to be exact.  For someone who likes to get home at least once a month, I felt like I hadn't been home in a year.

There were many things I was looking forward to on my trip:  the wedding of a great high school friend, and the reunion with many other high school friends that went along with it.  My little white dog who I swear saved my life.  My goofy now-both-retired parents whose banter and teasing of one another is both entertaining and exhausting.  My sister and her girlfriend who digs Phantom of the Opera (and Jackie's own personal renditions of Music of the Night).  The big pool with the little waterfall.  Rainbow Milk Bar at the Fair.

Lots of things to look forward to.

But what actually weighed most heavily on my mind going into Syracuse on the obviously-late-and-dysfunctional Greyhound bus was a confrontation between me and my big green bedroom.  No longer a big green bedroom.  No longer mine.

But in all honesty it had never been "mine".  It was always "hers":  Pre 2009 Jesse.  Dramatic?  Maybe. But true?  Oh yes.And I'd been avoiding her and that big green room every day since I returned home from my biopsy.


There were drawers and books and bins in that room that had not been opened, not been TOUCHED since a 17 year old with long brown hair closed them up after a wind ensemble concert, a dance class, after finishing her homework, or after watching Obama defeat McCain on TV.  So when my 22 year old sister asked me very gingerly, very carefully in June of this year if she could have my old room when she moved back, I begged her, "Please, Jackie, for the love of God.  Please do something with that mausoleum.  Take it."

Indeed, it was a mausoleum and was treated as such.  During treatment I couldn't bear to be in there and stayed in my mother's room. If I wasn't in her bed drinking my Miralax and watching Desperate Housewives, I was on the couch downstairs eating barbecue chips and watching reality TV.  Post-cancer I would come home from college or from New York City and sleep on the couch.  My luggage would live on the floor in the living room until my mom or dad finally begged me to get my shit out of the way because they were tired of finding bras in the couch cushions and tripping over boots.

So I would reluctantly drag my bags up the stairs to the big green mausoleum and drop them on the big green carpet and then duck the f**k out as fast as I could.  If I needed to maneuver the dresser drawers full of clothes, I did so strategically and nimbly--you'd never know if you were going to find an old love letter in the sock drawer, or come across that depressing bottle of Nautica cologne again that your ex-boyfriend left behind.  You might find the Thoroughly Modern Millie T-Shirt from Junior year or the ugly tye-dyed tank top from Sophomore year marching band with the sloppily written names of the flute players.  Best to get in and get out quickly.

And I know what you might be thinking.  You might be thinking C'mon, now, Jesse.  We all grow up.  We all move out.  We all come home and find our old things.

But here's the thing.  Jesse with the long, brown hair and the nose too big for her face didn't grow up and come back to find these things.  She left her big green bedroom on December 17th, 2008 has bin a snowstorm and came back that evening with a giant patch on her back from a manual biopsy needle and the parting words, "We'll be in touch.  Merry Christmas!"

She couldn't go back in that room.  And she just became more different day by day.  Skinnier.  Balder.  Sicker.  Angrier.  Then fatter.  Even sicker.  Even Angrier.  So, so angry.

Well, she just about disappeared.  And the big green room is--was--the only evidence that she ever existed.

Every once in a while as the years passed, I would feel courageous and open up the card that still sat on the vanity gathering dust.  It had lily pads and a pink flower on the front.  Inside were messages from my mom and dad congratulating me on the All-State concert at the beginning of December 2008.  I'd played oboe/english horn in the band that year, and sang in the chorus the year before.  My mom had written how proud she was, and how she could never have imagined when she sang in the All-State concert decades before that her own daughter would be there one day with her own musical talents.

If my nerve was steady and strong, I could even open up the little drawer beneath the card and find the little miniature oboe they'd given me along with it.

But that was a rare nerve.

"Please get rid of the mausoleum.  All of it."

With the exception of a Calvin Klein sweatshirt, I told my mom and dad it could all go.  Everything.  The notes, the clothes, the posters, the band T-Shirts, the tiny wallet senior photos I'd traded and collected amongst my friends.  Make it all disappear.

I was ready when I came home last week.  I was ready for relief.  And I got it.  The room is unrecognizable.  The green carpet was ripped up and the hardwood floors repaired and smoothed over.  The furniture is brand new, the walls painted.

The green room is gone.

My mom, dad, and sister did an incredible job.  Jackie's new room is stunning, and my mom carefully painted and redecorated Jackie's old room.  She made it into a comfy, cozy little place for me to stay when I'm home.  For me to leave my luggage so my bras aren't found in the couch cushions.

I am so, so grateful to them for turning the mausoleum into something brand new--brighter, and happier.  I'm not even mad that they forgot to save the Calvin Klein sweatshirt.

Since returning to the city, it's hit me, though.  She's really gone.  I guess, subconsciously, knowing that big green room remained there, untouched--it made it easier to hold on to...something.  I dunno.  It made it easier not to mourn that little high school kid.

You mourn a lot of things in battling cancer.  But it always felt silly to mourn the person I used to be--for many reasons.  It feels melodramatic, and useless.  Nothing can be changed.  What happened happened...but I still tear up writing this knowing that I can't remember what it felt like to not have had cancer.  What was I like?  What did I love?  What did I think about?  Broadway?  Grades?  Dancing? Boys?  I remember being very concerned that my tapping wasn't up to par--after all, I intended on heading to college a triple threat.  I forced myself to endure the advanced tap class at the dance studio even though I was the worst one.  I loved playing my instruments more than I ever let on to anyone, even my teachers.  I loved falling asleep with my cat, listening to Family Guy on the tiny TV in the big green bedroom.


What did I fear, then?  What could I have done?  Who would I be?  Where would I be?

The answers don't exist because the questions are pointless.  But they arise in my brain regardless.

I am quite happy with who I am today.  Truly.  I have my flaws as we all do.  But, to come full circle, who I am today actually began on that biopsy table, right after I left that bedroom as old Jesse.  Long, brown hair Jesse feared the Gardasil vaccine and passed out at the idea of having blood drawn.  Short, blonde Jesse emerged for the first time when the doc said "if you want to wait to schedule an appointment to be put under in a routine biop--"  She cut him right off and said "do it now.  If we are doing this we're doing it right the f**k now."

To this day I'm not exactly sure where those balls came from.

You never actually know what you're capable of until--often out of the blue--you happen to show yourself.  I think of that moment whenever I have doubts about my worth.  My value.  My capabilities.  My character.  Who I am or who I could have been.  Short blonde manual biopsy Jesse said "do it right now."

She's cool.  Highly recommend her.  She's somebody who used to care a whole lot about overcoming her adversities by being successful. By making it big.  But now, she's someone who tries to figure out, every night as she falls asleep, where she could've been more patient, more understanding or more helpful the previous day.

But you should ask her about the big green bedroom sometime, and the girl who used to live in it.


I don't wan't to forget her, completely.

I'm Writing A New Blog

Hi People!!!

It's been quite a while since I've written in this blog, and I'm sorry for that.  But I've actually started a new blog that I'd love for all of you to check out.  It's not survivorship-centered.  Just more me shooting the shit about my neurotic behavior/thoughts/life.  I'm so grateful to everyone who made this blog a success and I'd love for you all to follow me on to the next adventure :)

http://amorepointlessone.blogspot.com


Love Always,

Jess

Cancer and Me

It is March 25, and today is my 25th birthday and the day Jesus died (even though this website says its Thursday, March 24, because they are on Pacific time which is stupid, so there).

The two facts are not at all synonymous, but I feel that I cannot address one without addressing the other. 

I am only here to talk about the first, as the details surrounding the second are largely unkown to me.

I have officially begun my quarter-life crisis.  In part because my aging process has been a bit wonky. Let me break it down for you:

                    Jesse Pardee is, at present, 25 years, 0 days old.

Jesse Pardee is, of mind, 23 years, 0 days old (due to health pause)

Jesse Pardee is, of body, 56 years, 0 days old (due to chemo/cancer havoc)

You can see where it might get a little hairy (no cancer pun intended).

But my crisis is mainly due to the fact that I don't quite know who I am and where this momentous illness fits...or will ever fit, in my life.  And I still don't quite know how it's changed me.  Over the past few weeks I've been re-reading these blog posts and cringing at what I must have thought at the time was cheeky, or witty, or something.  "Cutting edge", bolded statements, excessive swearing.

I also marvel at how earnestly I believed that people were interested in my life.  The blog, in all sincerity, was a simple writing project of sorts.  I guess the true intention was never to really deal with or to think through the experience, which is likely why I got so sick of writing on it.  I'd chosen the topic of my cancer because it was something unique that I could talk about.  I wanted to write about something that would stand out among the things that other people my age were writing and blogging.  I guess you could say I played the cancer card: a right which, whether I like it or not, I have duly and irrevocably earned.

These past weeks, approaching my 25th birthday,  I began to feel differently about my life.  I look back on its first quarter--"quarter" very likely being generous in reference to my time on earth--and realize that my biggest accomplishment is beating cancer.  Which, ya know, is great and dandy and all.  It's just not what I wanted or pictured for myself.  Obviously.  That's not the kind of "win" I'd hoped for.

     

And then I realize that "win" is like, the biggest understatement.  I faced death.  I watched others--mostly children who will never have a "quarter-life crisis"--fall all around me.  Gone.

     

My quarter-life "win" was not landing a dream job, or getting married, or having a child, or even having money to pay the bills--which in New York City is more like a monthly "win".  And not that those things aren't huge accomplishments, and wonderful for people who achieve them within the first 25 years of their life.  But my quarter-life "win" was in a battle for my life.  Survival against a very deadly disease. "Malignant tumor" is the scariest phrase you'll ever hear come out of a doctors mouth besides "rectal exam".  

So at 25 years old, why is my triumph and survival not something that makes me proud?  I hate to say it, but at times it really makes me embarrassed or even ashamed, and I couldn't tell you why.

So in September I started regularly seeing a therapist who specializes in trauma and PTSD.  Through this I've realized that I never truly allowed myself to look back on that year of my life and really bring that chapter to a sensible conclusion.  Instead, the memories replay in my dreams, lurk in my sub-conscious, and hold me back.  And, for the most part, I let them.  

They make me feel as though I'm living on borrowed time, and instead of motivating me to live in the moment, I get scared.  Many times I look in the mirror and see a coward.  A girl who sits in the back seat while the trauma drives her around and makes all the decisions.  Every light is yellow or red and everywhere she goes is a hazard zone.

In the past month, my therapist has begun EMDR treatments.  You can look it up, because God knows on this "good-est" of Fridays that I cannot explain it here.  It's essentially a semi-hypnotic re-working and re-living of traumatic events in order to find some closure.  Because although in many ways, I'm doing quite well, my cancer is still driving the bus.

25 will hopefully be a year of discovery and recovery.  I'm learning that post-cancer Jesse is a lot different from pre-cancer Jesse, and for the first time I'm allowing that to be okay.  Pre-cancer, I dreamed of being on Broadway, and thought that that was the only thing that could make me happy or make me feel successful.  Immediately post-cancer,  I forced myself to pick up right where I left off--unaware, or unwilling to see that perhaps things were different now.  Perhaps my dreams have changed or are changing.  

Am I done auditioning in NYC?  No.

Am I positive it's the right life for me?  No.

Do I now think that there are other things that will bring me happiness?  Yes, 100%.  

And whether or not I decide I still want this or not, I think that's a healthy attitude to have.

And "healthy" is what I'm trying to put at the forefront right now.  When I moved here, I shoved the cancer baggage to the back of my mind, telling myself I should be over it by now--unaware that it was still in control.  So now I begin the next year of my life putting my health first.  I am continuing therapy and EMDR.  I am still living in New York City, loving this city, loving the cozy spot in Washington Heights that I share with Matt.  Maybe some auditions here and there.  Hopefully more classes.  Maybe even some writing workshops.  Maybe I'll even learn to write about something other than this black cancer plague!  I know I'd like to. 

I'd like to close the cancer chapter.  I'd like to make it an important chapter in my life that I glance at from time to time--but no more daily re-livings.  I'd like to get to a point where the dreams stop, and I don't wake up from sleep with the idea that I have to get ready for first period wind ensemble because they've sent me back to high school to make up for the missed time.

I'd like to stop thinking about the missed time and think about the time to come--however much or however little that is.

Be well.

Jesse

                                                                                                    #kevbphotos

Crows and Things

When I was very young I picked up a dead bird.

I don't really know why I picked up a dead bird.

I can speculate as to why I picked up a dead bird.  I saw it there near this big patch of rocks by my driveway which I had cleverly called "the rock pond." I was playing a game I called "Rebecca" in which you pretend you are a girl named Rebecca and essentially that is how you play the game "Rebecca."

I digress.

So I'm playing the game "Rebecca" and Rebecca notices a stark black "thing" at the edge of the rock pond near the telephone pole (near a telephone pole no less!)
  NOTE: I am going back to first person now. I just want it to be clear that I am Rebecca and Rebecca is me and we are one and the same according to the rules of Rebecca.

So yeah, I notice this black thing and just casually make my way over to it and realize it is this big ole black crow totally frozen with rigor-mortis, belly up.

Disgusting right? Well nothing is too disgusting for Rebecca. Who is me.

I'd never seen anything dead before, and don't think I actually knew what "dead" meant.  The word didnt exist to me yet...but this bird...I knew it wasn't fake...a Halloween decoration or a toy. To me it was just a bird that was no longer living. I dunno what it was doing.

I had no concept of death at this point in my life. To me this crow was not dead. It was just not alive. It was not breathing or cawing or flying or being actively ugly rather than passively ugly.

For whatever reason, I knew I had to pick it up.  I brought it up the steps of the porch to show my dad who I instinctively knew would yell at me. But I strutted down the breezeway like I was hot shit and shouted for my dad to "come look at the stick I found!"

Oh yeah. A stick. Real smooth.

He came to the door and looked at me like I was bleeding out or something, shouting for me to put it down and carrying me to the sink to SCRUB my hands.

He, of course, explained to me that this was not a stick (which I'm pretty sure we both knew I was aware of before) and that it was dead.

Dead.

Now I knew "dead".  You could be alive and you could be dead. Simple enough. Thanks, Dad!

This memory comes back to me a lot.  I've thought of it more and more since my spin in the cancer boat.  With all of the death I had going on around me, I had to approach my thoughts about death in a different way.  Especially because until this point, it wasn't really something I had to think about too often with regards to my own death.

These were kids dying around me.  Kids I was sitting beside one moment and then...gone.

The idea of a "higher power" putting people through this and then making them "dead" didnt make sense to me. I dont know what I believe in...but if there is a higher power, then I couldn't accept that he (or she) was just making them "cease to exist."  So I started reminding myself that I just don't know what happens-what the opposite of "alive" truly entails.  My coping mechanism has been to stop thinking of them as "dead" when all I really know about their state of being is that they are not alive.

Like the crow...brilliant right, see how I tied it all together?

I write this post from a pancake house in Virginia at 6:15 am. I am sitting next to a guy named Chip and jot down these thoughts in a composition notebook covered in Strawberry Shortkake glitter stickers. (You'll have to forgive me friends. I'm currently reading Lena Dunham's memoir and she is a huge fan of random, quirky details that don't necessarily contribute importance but do make the sentence unnecessarily long.  Love you Lena. Yes, I am jealous).  I came to the pancake house right when it opened at six, following the news that my Godfather passed away just around 4:15. My uncle Harry. Lovingly referred to as simply Harry.
     I hadn't been sleeping anyway because I knew that this news was short on it's way.  I'm on a six week contract in the middle of what feels like nowhere without a single person to cry on or to, so what else would I do but write over French toast next to Chip?  Thinking about dead crows that aren't dead...or are they?

   I don't friggin know.

   My Godfather and I go way back.  Yes, all the way to my baptism back, but also to a day that in my mind was an even bigger moment for me both because I actually remembered it and because it was Spice Girls related.


   I was very young--somewhere in my Rebecca and the crow days. I was at the mall with my parents, my aunt,
and with Harry, when I happened upon a pink and white Spice Girls watch with an elastic wristband. I had lived long enough to know that I was probably gonna grow up to be Scary, Baby, Ginger, or Poshy (yeah, I insisted on calling her Poshy for awhile until she cut her hair and then for some reason something changed in me).  But I would obviously need this watch to be whoever it was I was supposed to become and fulfill my platform boot destiny (oh yeah I was very philosophical in those days).
    My parents, cruel as they are, told me that it was too close to Christmas for little gifts like this, and that I'd have to wait.  But I knew in my heart that the watch wouldn't wait.  It'd be gone.  So I cried and sulked the rest of the outing while frantically humming "Saturday Night Divas" as a means of calming myself down (I had Spice Girl schizophrenia).
     When it came time for us to part ways with Harry and my aunt, Harry grabbed my hand and pressed the watch into it. He grunted, "here."

      It was a Spicy miracle.

      But what it really, truly did was set the tone for our relationship.  I was his Goddaughter, and that
made me special, he was my godfather and that made him special.  There was a smile and twinkling of the eyes that was reserved only for me.  This was something we always shared.

     One year ago, we came to share another thing.
     We shared cancer.
     Of course, everyone's battle is their own, and no two could ever really be alike, but just as my baptism linked us, our cancers linked us.
     It's tricky though.  Being a 23 year old whose been around the block with cancer before, to then encounter someone older than you being diagnosed--let alone a family member you look up to.  You dont know how to be.  You want to say, "hey I can kind of relate to some of the things that you are going through, but I'm not going to tell you that because why would you want to hear from a stupid twenty-something how she relates to what you're going through"?

    But the first time he saw me after his diagnosis, he called me over and said "hey, I need a hug from YOU."  And I knew that that's how our odd similarity would be acknowledged.  I'd take my cues from him.
     Our "cancer talk" was always very hush hush.  Our chemo banter very staccato and quick:
                "Head gets cold."
                "Yup."
                "Fingers are tingly."
                "Oh yeah."
                "Can't taste cake."
                "Nope."
                "The ice tastes like--"
                "Metal."
                 "Yeah."

That was all.  That was all it took.
    I've been feeling so guilty about how happy these conversations made me feel.  Over the years our family has gotten bigger, Harry has grandchildren now, and I know that goddaughters and granddaughters are very different.  Not to say I was no longer important--but you know what I mean.
    I wish the content of the conversations was a bit cheerier  but it made me really happy in a sorts that my having had cancer before gave us those little conversations.  They were quick and brief but made me feel helpful in a way that I don't really understand but am actually grateful for. They're some of my last conversations with him.

     People talk about survivors guilt.  Yeah it exists but I didn't feel that with Harry.  I felt glad that we could have the connection.  And maybe a little guilt.

Because its there somewhere inside you.  The guilt exists.  I sometimes wake up, and touch my cheekbones with the flats of my hand and say, "you still here?"

I'm still here.

Minus one.
Minus a crow.
Minus a watch.

Rebecca taught me that just because something is no longer living that doesnt make it dead.

Words of a Spice Girls schizo...but still...





Ps. Harry--may your head be warm, your fingers untingly, may the cake taste sweet and the ice cubes fresh as a fountain.  I love you.

Resurrecting a Little Something

Came across a scholarship essay I'd written a while back. Perfectly sums up how I've been feeling lately and just wanted to put it out into the universe again:

    I’ve wanted to record my experiences for quite some time now.  I refer to bits and pieces of it all the time, whether they are sensory memories or just through storytelling and what not, it seems to come up--at least in my mind--on an almost daily basis.  Even my closest friends only know the “shell” of the story.  The frame-work.  And that’s not because I hold back when I discuss it with them.  It’s because there is really so much to it all that it is just impossible for me to say what I want to say and keep it in the context of a conversation. 

   I was only seventeen.  Seventeen.  And yes, I am aware that teenagers deal with this “stuff” a lot--more than I really care to think about—but what people don’t realize is that because I was seventeen when I was given the big C-word (not that C-word), it shaped who I am almost entirely.  When a forty year-old woman is diagnosed with breast cancer, and embarks on the war-like journey of chemotherapy, radiation therapy, etc, she is already whole.  Meaning she knows who she is.  She has experienced life and gotten to know herself as a person—separate from cancer and sickness. 

   When a young child is diagnosed with leukemia, they will (hopefully) be cured by the time their id really starts to develop.  The experience will already be over and done with to the point where a) they were so young that they won’t remember, or b) they are young enough to be able to leave the majority of the experience behind as a part of their childhood.

    But a young adult who suffers from a debilitating disease such as cancer—well, he or she is branded for life.  Not necessarily in a bad way, no.  It depends on how they mold the experience.  But because they dealt with it during the time in which they are having their initial bouts of self-discovery…wham, bam, thank you ma’am—it’s who they are.  What I learned from my experience with cancer as a young adult has directly lead me to who I am today, and plays a role in every thought I have, every decision I make, and every word I say.  And it always will.  Not to say the woman who defeats cancer at age 40 is not significantly changed—because she is—but she knows who she is separate from her illness.  And a child who beats cancer—well, they have a lot more time to develop and to move on.

    Not me.  I am my cancer, through and through.  And let me tell you—I am DAMN proud.

    Often, when I talk with people, I just naturally refer to a time ‘in the hospital’ or ‘during treatment’.  And half-way through the statement I think “shut up, Jesse, no one wants to hear about that.  It’s so depressing.”  But it is SO much a part of who I am.  It was my entire life for a year and a half.  

    When I say ‘I am my cancer’, it is not because I want everyone to look at me and think ‘poor baby, she had cancer’ or ‘there’s that girl who had cancer’.  No.  It is because the person I am today is a direct reflection of what I went through.  And I say I’m proud because I am.  I am so proud of myself.  I went from a girl who had to have twenty four hours to mentally prepare before a flu-shot to a badass chick who bit her lip every fucking night while her father injected her with two intramuscular shots in the leg (and mad props to you too, Dad).  I went from a girl who thought her life revolved around becoming some famous big-shot to a girl who realized...famous to whom?

   I will not, however, claim to be some perfect human being, though.  While I do consider myself a strong person, there are little things that I still can’t seem to shake.  Growing up—for some God-damned reason—I let society convince me that looks are important.  So when I lost my long brown hair, shit hit the fan.  I never, ever, not ONCE, went out in public without a wig on.  Now, part of that was because I never wanted any pity from anyone, and I’ll be the first to admit that the thought that immediately pops into my head when I see a bald chick walking around is---‘oh my gosh, I feel so sorry for her’.  But the majority of my reasoning had to do with vanity.

   Today, my hair is back, but very short still—and I give myself a really hard time everyday when I look in the mirror, wishing it was long again.  And I know…it’s just hair.  But that’s the thing…cancer attacks the things that seem unimportant to you.  Including  your overall health (ahhhemmm, this is dedicated to teenagers and other young adults who insist on filling their lungs with smoke,  obliterating their livers, getting high, and then driving a fucking car).   It was just hair, it was just my last performance in high school, it was just awards night (that I wasn’t even informed about—thanks West Genesee).  The only reason I even got to go to prom was because the freaking nurses worked around the clock to make sure all my chemo was given at precisely the right time, that I was tanked up on blood and platelets, and that my kidneys weren’t going to shut down in the middle of the event---yeah how’s that for pre-gaming before prom!  Woo!  (Another thing…nurses.  So freakin’ underappreciated.  High five, nurses).

    And family.  Maybe you’re surprised that I include family in a list of things that seem unimportant.  Well.  Don’t you think you take them for granted?  Pretty sure I did.  Until it was a possibility that my time with them was limited.  Give your loved ones a freakin’ hug.  Seriously.  Go, do it.

      I think you can clearly see that these events are fresh on my mind.  I remember every detail.  So when I stop myself from talking about stuff that happened to me during my illness—I have to think about it for a second, and then I let myself continue.  Because just as the things that have happened to you in the past few years are some of the freshest memories you have…I spent a lot of time battling this illness.  So many young people do.  Too many young people do.  So when you hear me, or someone like me, refer to my experience it’s not because I want your pity (trust me, if you look/talk to me like I’m a freakin’ helpless puppy, you are GOING to get called out on it), and it’s not because I want attention.  It’s because it’s who I am.  It was my life during a critical period of self discovery.  I am my cancer—whether I like it or not.  I kicked the shit out of my cancer, and I’ll do it again if I have to.  But the things I learned from it made me who I am.  

Inspiration and Respect

About a month ago, I wrote up a nice little post about a boy from my past who I believe only liked me for my cancer.  Pretty much.

It sounds ridiculous, but when I look back on my life post-treatment I have to hand it to myself:  I’m f*cking fascinating.  I have all these quirks, and strange habits, and fears, and I go about my everyday life as if all of those things don’t exist.  As if 2009 never happened.

When I think back to that year, there’s kind of a haze over the memory.  The year as a whole, that is.

What I mean to say is that the year as a whole seems to have this foggy amnesia-like cloud over it.  It’s a blur.

But a specific memory—a perfume scent, a beeping sound at 3 am, the soapy taste of Ifosfamide, holding my breath while the nurse plunged a needle in my chest, cursing at people who were just trying to help—that is all as clear as the deep blue sky.

But it’s not every day that I’m accessing these memories—it’s every day that I’m accessing the fog.  I don’t really know if that makes sense.  But every day I’m aware of that foggy cloud over my shoulder whispering question marks and threatening to toss out one of those memories.

Again.  It truly is fascinating.  I’m fascinating.  I’ll say it—it’s my blog, screw humility. 

But the fascination people have with me—the fascination with my story, with memories…with those quirks and strange habits—well, I’m afraid people often confuse it with who I really am, and it blurs their judgment. Confuses them.

At least that’s the way I thought it happened with that boy.  Looking back I fear that he confused his feelings of fascination with feelings of affection. With FEELINGS feelings.

I wrote a blog post about it, but I’m pretty sure my approach in writing it was all wrong.  I showed it to him beforehand, because I felt guilty.  And he asked me something that I know is meant as a positive testament to who I am—but that could not be further from what I want from people.

He asked me why it was that he was not allowed to be inspired by me.  What was so wrong with thinking that I’m inspiring.

You may be thinking NOTHING.  NOTHING is wrong with being inspiring.  What could she possibly have against being inspiring?

But what I think…

Well.

What I feel…

Is that foggy little cloud over my shoulder.  Constantly pricking at my back, threatening to swallow me, lording it’s power…and I can’t help but think…this foggy cloud inspires you?  This awful black hole that brings so much pain and uncertainty into my life…is your inspiration?

And of course…you’re probably thinking “no, Jesse.  It’s you.  It’s the fact that you put up with that cloud that makes us inspired.”

Well, let me tell you—I wasn’t given much choice.

I’ve run all the scenarios through my head so many times.  Thought to myself…you can’t just let people do what they do?  You can’t let them spin something positive out of your experience?  They just want to be inspired.

Well, as a close friend of mine would say:

Go inspire yourself.

What I want?  Is your respect.

I don’t want to know if you’re inspired by me.  Inspiration is something that occurs within you, and if you find it in my sad little tale, then that’s great.  Keep it to yourself.

I’m after your respect.

Show me some respect, and we can be friends.