It's Sunday. Tomorrow, just over 24 hours from now, I meet with my medical oncologist to make a decision about the chemotherapy options that have been presented to me.
Look, I know that screaming in music isn't for everyone, but it works for me. I've relied on adrenaline inducing music over the years to help me process emotions and, at times, feel anything at all.
It's already been three weeks since my bowel resection. Imagine that! Time apparently flies when you're paralyzed with existential dread. I'm kidding. Kind of.
It feels like a weighted blanket, rooted in some unnamable space between body and mind, applying a firm pressure as it whispers that you don’t belong. Those whispers grows louder—immune to logic and rationalization—the interloper insisting evermore loudly that you’re a fraud. That you’re in the wrong place. That you should feel bad. That you are, in fact, the interloper in your own life.