This Body is Bullshit

Today I feel out of sorts. My chest is tight, and it feels like I might be in the middle of a panic or anxiety attack. There’s this heaviness—sadness, anger, despair—that makes me want to curl up in the fetal position.

I was late for work because I couldn’t get off the shower floor. I sat there, water running, thoughts spiraling, trying to muster the energy to move.

I keep thinking—how do people live like this every day? Angry, worried, stressed out? I don’t feel this way all the time, but today it feels unbearable.

Maybe it’s the drinking. I don’t drink much anymore, but I got wasted at my friend’s birthday this weekend—to the point where I don’t remember how the night ended. Yesterday I was just tired and beat up. But today? Today feels like the emotional hangover hit harder than the physical one.

And then the financial stress came crashing back in. Debt I can’t see my way out of. The constant cycle of robbing Peter to pay Paul. I thought about sending a couple of the bills that are burying me to my stepdad and just asking him to pay them off so I could breathe. I hate even thinking that way, but it’s exhausting. That’s the thing—my mom would’ve helped me. She always said when she died, Ken would give me money, but he didn’t. Not that it was promised. But she believed it. And sometimes I think about how much that money would change my life right now, how different things could be.

Grace’s student loans are about to come due. I am covering her undergrad; she’s paying for her master’s. I want to help her, but it’s crushing. She’s carrying enough already. She gets frustrated so easily, she holds on to anger, and I just want her to feel light and happy and free. She deserves better than the guys she wastes her time with. She deserves so much more.

And then, beneath all of that, the constant whisper: will the cancer come back? I’ll never get to say “I’m in remission.” All I get is “no evidence of disease.” A phrase that feels temporary, fragile.

I’ve been through FMLA before—for my surgeries earlier this year. Just last week I filed again, this time to cover taking my dad to his neurologist. But I think about all the employees who take FMLA for anxiety, depression, mental health breaks. And honestly? Maybe I should too. Maybe I need it. I need a fucking break.

Being in HR doesn’t help. My whole job is dealing with other people’s feelings, other people’s crises. Most days I can hold compassion and empathy, but on days like this it’s draining. I’m running on fumes.

Right now, the fatigue is bone-deep. My scars ache, my shoulders burn, my face feels tired. And still, I’ll get up, smile, show up for people. I’ll make sure everyone else is okay. But I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I’m fine when sometimes I’m really not.

I want escape. I want to be in Florida with Rusty and Heather. Or in Sayulita with Natalie, where life felt lighter. Where I wasn’t weighed down by fatigue, by debt, by worry.