They say that cancer changes your life. Truth behind that cliche, and lots of it.

It’s not so much that life changes, as that you do. Inside.

Bad day — there’s a fucking hole in my leg. Hurts. Other leg missing a layer of skin. Hurts, too.

Every day I discover something else that has changed. The no-sun-EVER order from my oncologist means no more performing at Faire. OK, fine. I was ready for that. Last night, while watching the opening of the SAG awards, the impact of that sunk in — for the first time, I no longer have an outlet for dramatic performance. I was getting paid for stage performances before I left high school. I went into college with the dead-set assumption that I was going to be an actor. Faire was a sad remnant of that desire, and now it’s gone for me.

Priorities are in a fucking blender. Nothing feels important.

Can’t write, can’t get back to work….climbing the fucking walls here at home, but not healed enough to go anywhere.

Things that I want to say to people. Some of it related to how they’ve acted around me since I’ve been dealing with this. I avoid doing so, because I haven’t got the energy for the drama. It seems so fucking trivial.

(But then again, when the first thing you want to do on the day after I’ve been diagnosed is tell me your side of boyfriend-related LJ drama, and when I seem disinterested because *I’ve just been told I have fucking cancer,* your reaction is to say “look at me. This is important….” Well, maybe being told how badly you’re fucking up is exactly what is needed here. Who knows. Nothing else has woken you up.)

Others have become angels. Still others are hestitant, and look at me like I might break. It’s all very strange.

…and all of it, whirling, constantly, behind my eyes. I feel simultaneously like a drama queen, guilty for my emotional excesses….and yet completely justified in being traumatized. I just don’t fucking know.

Hell, I’ll probably end up deleting this.