Friends, family and even some near-strangers have kindly asked me how I am doing mentally, given my recent esophageal cancer diagnosis. I thought it would be helpful to address the issue here on the Blog, where everyone can get the update at the same time. The situation is a mite paradoxical.
Let me start with a different topic: my physical health. Truth be told, I feel physically fine. Granted, I do continue to have trouble swallowing. Food gets stuck on the way down, and I need to drink lots of water to move it along. Sometimes that process outright hurts. I’ve also had some acid reflux, apparently because certain “valves” down in my gastrointestinal tract aren’t functioning properly nowadays. Here’s another sign. Doctors keep asking me: “Have you lost lots of weight?” But no, I haven’t – though I haven’t gained weight either, despite indulging in beer and sweets! In sum, physically, I don’t appear unwell at all.
I suspect, of course, that the chemotherapy and radiation will play havoc with my physical well-being soon enough. We’re not there yet, however.
To come to my actual topic, I’m also faring surprisingly well mental-health wise. My depression symptoms continue to be mostly in remission. In particular, I’m keeping my suicidal ideations at bay. I’m sleeping well. I’m not shaking much. Even my fear symptoms come around less frequently of late and aren’t as severe. Long/short: I’m quite well, thanks for asking.
This may all sound quite puzzling. Shouldn’t my Bipolar be acting up really badly? Well, my psychotherapist Lori put her finger on something when she asked last week, “Do you feel relieved at all?” Indeed, I do. A huge aspect of my depression and anxiety has pertained to aging. I have been afraid to get old myself, slowly losing my independence and quality of life. I have been just as afraid of seeing my loved ones get sick, grow old, and die. (Seeing my father enjoy life less and less the last two years of his life certainly didn’t help with my deep sense of foreboding.)
The thing is, if I die of cancer in my sixties, I won’t have to experience those things after all. To come at it another way, I think I’m relieved that I can get “the benefits of suicide” without having to actually commit suicide! Where the main “benefit” is: not having to see others undergo what my father did; and not having to undergo it myself.
I grant that this is not merely paradoxical but also tremendously morbid, and even twisted. Nonetheless, I suspect it may be what is going on in my unconscious psyche.