So, thanks to my enthusiastic approach to following Busy Philipps on Instagram (I wish there were an community-owned alternative, I really do, as I think sharing has value but dislike the corporate money-making aspect and the way we have to give up control of snapshots of our own lives *breathe*), and her excellent music taste, I was reintroduced to Tori Amos today after a long break 😍 – I never engaged with Cornflake Girl (the music, not the lyrics) and clearly never forgave her 😂, I bought ‘Little Earthquakes’ on tape, that’s how long ago it was.

I got over all that earlier today and am currently enjoying last year’s album; sorry it took so long Tori.

I swear I’ve never seen this wonderful video either, I’m pretty sure you’ll appreciate it.

Anyway, a few rounds of singing Crucify, led me back to thinking. As I often do.

Shortly after my diagnosis last November, and after the start of the initial (brutal) rounds of chemotherapy, I found myself unable to listen to music, unable to sing.

Obviously the word is unwilling, not unable, I also eschewed reading and any film that wasn’t designed for young children. Such is the effect of engaging art (that’s what it all is ❤️ of course) on my emotional state, I couldn’t do it. I was conscious of not wanting to go there. It’s not very elegant phrasing, but I’m presuming you catch my drift. Although I was definitely expressing lots of feelings during those heavy treatment phases (sorry!), I wasn’t able to articulate exactly what I felt deep down as I hadn’t even begun to process it.

It was just 10 days between a mammogram that I had expected to be clear to my first round of chemotherapy.

It’s almost 11 months since then and I’m still in treatment. The intensity of this, still blows my mind.

It is interesting that as I have started to feel stronger and the balance of treatment to come is now outweighed by what I have already survived, I’m experiencing an overload of creative thoughts. Almost a deluge.

Most of what I’m churning out is rubbish but there is the occasional gem in the rough and it is hugely therapeutic for me.

It’s very much each to their own, of course. To some people this is a very private process and will always be so but many of us find the need it channel our personal experience into something almost tangible. It’s never tangible. That’s the problem. It’s too much to get a grip on; too violent to express gently and too delicate to shout about.

The guilt associated with still being alive and having a chance of living beyond this can be debilitating, I don’t know if it’s a greater sense of empathy (probably) or just being part of a new community with no volunteer members. I have no control over how my own disease will evolve just as none of us can predict the future. Trying to contextualise your own nightmare just doesn’t work, but yet I try.

So what does work?

‘It’s good to talk’ as the famous advertisement drilled into us (link at the bottom 😉).

It’s not good. It’s bloody essential. How anyone gets by not talking, about anything for that matter, is beyond me. Do it. Much and often. Not only will it keep you sane it will help you channel all those feelings and you will get better.

You cannot control what will happen to you but you can help yourself (and others) cope with it.

The documentary of my life would be called ‘The woman who never stopped talking’. I’m proud of that. Mostly. Although I net my nemesis today in my nurse, she couldn’t complete a sentence for my jostling to finish it for her 😂. It was the verbal equivalent of that awkward yet funny situation of trying to walk past someone and you both trying to dodge each other in the same direction. We laughed. We bonded.

I talk to myself, I talk to the dogs, I talk in my sleep. I write, I sing. Chas and Dave would be horrified.

I was able to get back to art (reading, watching something that challenged me, music) in the Spring, it took a long time and I felt its absence acutely. It passed slowly.

Without listening, without interacting, I would have nothing to say.

Sometimes it happens. Silence. It’s rare (😉) but necessary at times. The thing is, I’ve been silent in so many ways for so long during this process, I can’t and don’t want to stem the flow of thoughts and I think best aloud. It’s healing. From the inside.

My biggest challenge (and the bonus for anyone with me 🤐) is that I run out of energy these days and have to stop and rest. It’s like giving everyone a verbal head start for the first time in 42 years 😂. You’re welcome.

Whether actually talking (which this sometimes actually is because I dictate a lot so that my hands and fingers don’t seize up, which is a risk for now as a result of treatment) or writing, working through uncomfortable feelings and situations is a most powerful and life-giving process.

Sadly in so many cases we don’t get that far in a relationship or friendship for example; it breaks down because we are afraid of working through feelings to conclusion. It needs two to tango.

I’m not advocating everybody go down my path of pretty much expressing every feeling you have at that precise moment 😉, but I definitely feel 100% more in control of the uncontrollable from talking it through.

Every conversation I have – because even these pieces are never strictly one-way and they have usually been inspired by two-way dialogue or in today’s case, a brief static reference from someone I don’t know – leads me to something else like a ‘join the dots’ picture and the fabulous thing is I have no idea what the final picture will look like or what’s on the pages to come. Neither do you. Go on, have a natter. 😘

Anthony! People will always need plates!