the book of feelings.

there are these books that kindergarten teachers use to teach kids about feelings.  usually there is a page dedicated to each feeling: sad, happy, angry; and a hand drawn face of a child with that emotion.  the books teach kids to identify each feeling within themselves and others, and honors that it is okay to have each of these feelings.  

they say the cancer journey is a roller coaster of feelings.  everyone says that.  but roller coaster doesn’t even capture it.  sometimes the feelings i have are so unfamiliar that i can’t even identify what it is: what is the feeling between sad and angry?  what is the feeling that is the combination of both?  what is worse than devastated?  what is the feeling that is slightly worse than hopeless combined with overwhelmed?  what is the word for the feeling of being simultaneously vulnerable and able to withstand great force?  what is the word for needing to live with ambiguity, flexibility, but not wanting to have to?  what is the word for knowing you are living the saddest story you have ever heard but instead you feel like you are actually watching it?  how do you describe being numb yet completely heightened to every emotion?  how do you describe how resentful and angry you feel when you remember how strong you are supposed to be, how hopeful you want to be, how equipped to handle this people think you are.

i don’t have the language for what i feel.  

i need a new book of feelings.  a new vocabulary for emotion.  

i’ve been looking for stories of survival.  stories of hope.  stories of people who have come out the other side with melanoma.  i don’t know anyone who has had melanoma personally (other than my uncle, who unfortunately passed away quite quickly from it in the fall).  as i search online and speak to friends, one common thread comes through: people who have had cancer often say that they are awakened from a lifetime of treating their bodies poorly.  that they find cancer a wake up call, to appreciate what they have and to make healthier, more nourishing choices with their body, mind and soul.  

these storyline are hard for me to take because i don’t believe my cancer story will be a story of redemption.  i love my life.  i love my job.  i love the people that surround me.  i have appreciated every day of the life i have had so far, and i think i have (mostly) taken care of myself.  i’m a vegetarian, i haven’t had a drink in 2018, i’m not a smoker, i go to the gym, i get outside to see the world, and make time for connecting with others, reading and doing the things i love the most.  

how does someone like me get cancer?  i can’t reconcile this, nor find the language to describe it.  i can’t find a story that matches mine.  i feel lost in a tragedy, unable to describe it (or my emotions) in words.  

what’s the word for what has happened to me?  what’s the name for each of the feelings that slip between my wet eyelashes, that are hidden beneath my jagged fingernails, that creep in when my brain twinges like an old tv set that is briefly out of focus?

i recently finished a book called the little paris bookshop, by nina george.  the main character owns a is a literary apothecary, and he uses books to treat feelings that aren’t recognized or diagnosed by doctors:

“All those feelings and emotions no therapist is interested in, because they are apparently too minor and intangible.  The feeling that washes over you when another summer nears its end.  Or when you recognize that you haven’t got your whole life left to find out where you belong.  Or the slight sense of grief when a friendship doesn’t develop as you thought, or you have to continue your search for a lifelong companion.  Or those birthday morning blues.  Nostalgia for the air of your childhood.  Things like that.”

and so he writes it.  he calls it the great encyclopedia of small emotions.

its like a big-kid book of feelings.  i’ll be looking out for my copy.

*photo taken at my all-time-favorite bookstore in paris, shakespeare and company.