So it’s confession time. Why not? There’s no better time than the time where I have had a personal melt-down at my oncologist’s office because his timing for my treatment sucks. What sucks more is that he refused to change my treatment date and then refused to sign off on my medical records so I could travel.

On September 28, 2010, I was diagnosed with bone spurs, bulging discs, arthritis and broken lumbars in my back. Walking is excruciating. Sitting is intolerable. Standing for more than five minutes is impossible. I spend a good amount of time in bed, a heated, waveless waterbed. That caused a blood clot to form in my lungs, and I was hospitalised for a while with that.

All last month, my friend Matt had been helping me get around. My goal was to be able to go to a close friend’s wedding in November. However, on November 6, I was scheduled for a treatment. This is where I got upset with Doc Mick. He wouldn’t sign off on anything, and he wouldn’t budge with changing the date. Either we play by his rules, or we don’t play at all.

But I played the game, hopeful that by November, I would be able to sit, stand, and walk, if even for a day. I had a reason to get well, and I had a reason to try. I was given three medications. Mixed with what I was already taking, these extra drugs made me sicker. I had 16 hour sleep stretches. I vomited daily. This caused me to lose a cap and Dr. Petit wasn’t too happy with that. Vomiting isn’t covered with my original dental warranty. The medicine made my head spin. It was like permanent LSD trips. I hallucinated. Saw writing on walls. I woke up clenching both remotes just last week. But I was hopeful. Hopeful that I would get well and things would get better. I was hopeful that I could have somewhat of a normal life.

But in the immortal words that I said at the peak of my meltdown at Doc Mick’s:

I am not going to get well.
I will never be cured.
[He] can’t cure me.
The copious amounts of medicine can’t cure me.
[The Great Being We Call God] can’t cure me.
This is all just a waste of my time and my money and I quit.

With that being said, I will not be going back to treatment in December. I will not be going back in January. It’s done. I quit. I was supposed to get better. I was supposed to go through physical therapies and be able to make a drive to Dallas. I was supposed to get better. Have I already said that? Oh.

I worked hard. I forced myself to do things even when I did not feel well or feel right. I forced myself to get up, get dressed, brush my hair, take a bath every night because I thought in the end I would feel better, accomplished. I forced myself to drive from Sand Springs to Jenks, at least once a week. I forced myself to stand for at least twenty minutes a day to build up a tolerance. I cut waaaaaay back on my pain medication because I wanted my mind to be clear. I forced myself to fall asleep early in the evening and get up before the dawn many times. I forced myself to put up with my cruel doctor, I forced myself to lay through painful MRIs, listen to his jokes about how my ass was so big, the radiation from the x-rays couldn’t penetrate it and hit the film. I forced myself to agree with him that rather than focus on cancer, I should focus on losing weight and getting weightloss surgery. All his talk of my weight made me insane.

I thought in the end it would be worth it all.

But I didn’t get that happy ending.

All that hard work didn’t pay off.

All it got me was deleted, blocked, ignored, filtered, and phased out.

It’s my fault. I don’t blame anyone who did any of that to me. I kept my physical therapy to myself. I wanted it to be this big surprise. I wanted to have this huge celebration where I was well and could move. Instead, it back-fired.

So I quit.

It’s not worth trying anymore because the harder I try, the more people push me away. I tried so hard. And that’s what I got in the end.

Back in September, Matt joked to me that I was becoming Roxanna. Maybe I am. Maybe I am as bad and rotten and evil as she is and I’m just now realising it? Maybe this is my punishment for not giving her all that she wanted or demanded, for protecting me and mine.

I have deleted two of my blogs. Yanked them off the web. I told Matt on the way home that he needs to find his own hosting. I was sorry. I am burning DVDs for my friend that I have failed; when they are done burning, I will mail them out, though I am sure this person doesn’t want anything more to do with me.

I understand that people will want to unfriend me over this. I am fine with that. What I have written is not out of emotion or hysteria. It’s honest. I have been calm and collected through out writing this. It will mirror on the one blog that I am keeping. I will also be keeping my journals. I don’t expect anyone to pick sides, nor do I expect anyone to be sympathetic with me. I am just putting this out there to be read and known. I wasn’t hiding or trying to be a bad friend. I was trying to help myself so I could be a better friend. That’s what I get for trying, huh?