When Your Safe Space is Bulldozed

Have you ever been involved in a group or with a person you considered safe? They created a safe space for you to be authentically you. What happens when that safe bubble unexpectedly bursts?

That’s what happened to me recently. Without going into too much detail, once I know someone’s true stance on an issue that I find absolutely appalling, I can no longer share digital space with that person. Though it was brief, and the subject was quickly changed, I cannot unhear it. I had such a visceral reaction which let me know that I must protect my state of mind and permanently remove myself from that space.

As I’ve begun to explore, research, and learning to love my blackness, I must be even more careful of who I share space with. You know that saying, it only takes one bad egg to ruin the carton, rings true in this situation. Fortunately, I made some great friendships that have continued to develop outside of that space.

So, what do I do now? I lean on those who I know have the same values and opinions on hot button issues. I fill that time doing more to enrich and uplift my spirit and passions or just rest. My safe space is my Zen home and writing with my cat Nathan Edgar by my side.

Yesterday was the five-year anniversary of receiving the biopsy of my left breast. It hit a bit harder than usual because it truly was the last time of being just a regular patient. After that point, cancer will always be a permanent word in my medical history. Even though I have no evidence of disease (NED) at this time, I’ll never be just a regular patient.

While some cancer warriors don’t like to think about their cancerversaries, I do. My experience was utterly traumatic. I can’t get away from what I experienced and the permanent damage to my body.

I remember everything about getting the biopsy. The doctor who performed it looked like she was 12 years old and her name is Dr. Grey. Initially I laughed because I’ve been watching Grey’s Anatomy for years and told her I’m sure she’s sick of the jokes. The laughter broke the tension for a few minutes.

As I was lying there with the nurse on my right side holding my hand, I couldn’t take my eyes off Dr. Grey’s face. I watched her facial expressions and could see she found something, but my mind refused to think it would be cancer. I’m a great reader of facial expressions and body language, so I can see subtle changes that most wouldn’t notice.

To this day, I jump when I hear sounds of a stapler and especially hearing a staple gun. That’s what it sounded like with the tool Dr. Grey used to gather the tissue samples. It was so loud and echoed in the room. The nurse kept asking if I was in pain because I was squeezing her hand so tightly. No, I wasn’t in any pain, but the sounds were traumatizing me. I was counting each sample. She took more samples than she initially said she would.

I needed a safe space yesterday to talk things out and relieve some anxiety. I created one by calling a friend who never fails to crack me up and driving around just to feel like I had gotten away for a bit. I came back home feeling calmer with a half-smile on my face instead of a full-on frown.

I’ve mentioned before that ever since cancer, I’m incapable of tolerating bullshit. If someone bulldozes your safe space, know that you are strong enough to create another one for yourself.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

Times of Disruption

It has been an extraordinary time filled with opportunities I never dared to dream of. My confidence level continues to rise. I’ve lived more in that past few months than I’ve lived since moving back to Georgia from Los Angeles 17 years ago.

Even with these fabulous professional and advocacy wins, including a new full-time job that I’ll begin August 17th and multiple freelance gigs, there are still feelings of uncertainty. It’s not uncertainty about my abilities as a marketing and writing professional, it is an uncertainty of my body.

Chronic pain is not something I would ever wish on someone. It’s why my cancer journey takes so many gut-punching twists and turns over rocky terrain. I’m in the body of a mummy from the neck down.

There is never a moment where I am not in pain.

There is never a moment where I forget I’m in pain.

There is never a moment where I don’t curse this pain.

As much as I stress about a possible recurrence or metastatic cancer, I stress just as equally about how long I can keep pushing with pain levels that range from 6-20. I remember a telling moment at my 8th and final surgery related to my original breast cancer surgery that I had June 3, 2019 at Northside Cancer Center. While the nurse was prepping me with an IV, she asked what my pain level was at that moment. I told her it was an 8, and she just looked stunned. I was matter of fact and told her about my pain range and that an 8 was tolerable. She just started tearing up and said, “I’m so sorry you’re suffering so much.” It was honestly the first time any emotion had ever been shown by medical staff and I found it oddly comforting. For once, it wasn’t dismissed or even questioned.

My chronic pain is multi-faceted. I wish it were only from fibromyalgia. When you add severe neuropathy in my hands and feet, my senses become overloaded. Then add a herniated disc with a tear near the nerve where I desperately need another epidural steroid injection because the first one didn’t take, then I almost can’t think because the pain is beyond horrific.

It’s a disrupter of time.

It’s a disrupter of sleep.

It’s a disrupter of peace.

So, when others think my cancer story should be over, I simply say no. It never will be because I am reminded at every moment of every day what my cancer treatments and multiple surgeries did to my body. My body is gone. I don’t know this current body. We will always be strangers and never friends because it hurts me on too many levels. Others might be able to move past it, but I cannot. 

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie

The Problem with Words

As I was seeing beautiful black and white pictures of women for the #challengeaccepted posts on Instagram, I decided to use it as an opportunity to post the ugly things I’ve been told over the years. I know it shocked some people because my picture was cute but the words below it were tough to see. I felt it was important to express how words can be so damaging to a person’s psyche.

I kept it short on Instagram but decided to expand on it to see how far I’ve come in my own healing and thinking. No one should be told these things. I don’t know why I had to be the person on the receiving end of such hate and ignorance. It’s unfair. It’s unjust. It’s painful. It’s a problem with words.

I’ve been called a nigger.
I’ve been called ugly.
I’ve been called fat by men.
I’ve been called stupid by a teacher.
I’ve been called stupid by an employer.

I’ve been told I will fail.
I’ve been told I don’t matter.
I’ve been told I don’t exist.
I’ve been told I don’t belong.
I’ve been told I’m a sellout.

I’ve been called too emotional.
I’ve been called weak.
I’ve been called an Oreo.
I’ve been called unfeeling.
I’ve been called a valley girl.

I’ve been told I act too white.
I’ve been told I dress too white.
I’ve been told I’m not loveable.
I’ve been told I speak so well.
I’ve been told I’m not black enough.

My psyche has been systematically torn to pieces for 20+ years by the ignorance and racism from whites and blacks that started in my hometown of Macon, GA and has followed me through the years as a young adult and in the professional world. I reread my journal this morning from senior year of high school in 1995 and still have a visceral reaction to my words.

The pain of not being accepted.

The pain of being bullied.

The pain of desperately wanting to leave the south.

I never felt I belonged anywhere until the college years, especially junior and senior years at The College of Saint Rose in Albany, NY. That’s why I hold onto my college memories so fiercely because I found a group of friends so eclectic, smart, clever, and so accepting that I felt safe to be authentically me at that time. I’m glad I have scrapbooks and multiple photo albums that captured the fun times and great opportunities from that magical time in my life.

I honestly thought once I became a working adult that my work ethic and merit would get me ahead. As more years went by, the more oppressed and defeated I became. I would be told I’m an “expert,” yet companies could never find the money to give me a proper raise. They would be shocked when I turned in my resignation and then have the nerve to ask, “Is there anything we can do to keep you from leaving?”

I had been carrying all that negativity from racism, oppression, and feelings of inferiority on my back for so many years that I lost complete faith in my abilities and talent. I used to think it was a cruel joke that I received multiple awards in high school and college. I was constantly told I would be going places because of my talent. It turned out none of it counted in the “real world.”

My cancer experience redefined me. It helped to rediscover my voice that had been silenced for so long that I thought it was lost forever. I’ll never consider cancer a gift, but it was an opportunity to rediscover the things that once brought me true joy. Yet, I was still playing it too safe. I wasn’t fully taking back what control I had left over my life. I was remaining comfortable in the uncomfortable; still too paralyzed to make any serious moves.

It took a pandemic to force me to pause and pivot not just my career but also my mindset. Rereading that journal from my 17-18-year-old self this morning reminded me how much I’ve carried the hurt from people’s words that ultimately turned me into a shell of my former myself.

I’ve had a resurgence of my passions and confidence while rekindling old friendships and cultivating new and profound friendships. My mindset changed once I fully began to believe in myself and know my worth thanks to a lot of help from my friends. I’m blessed to have so many people continue to lift me up even when I’ve doubted myself all these years.

So, here’s what I repeat to myself now that I’ve shed that cloak of negativity that was suffocating me.

I AM intelligent.
I AM talented.
I AM worthy.
I AM inspirational.
I AM feminine.

I AM a writer.
I AM a performer.
I AM a Nut-Meg.
I AM a talker.
I AM a powerhouse.

I AM loving.
I AM sensitive.
I AM giving.
I AM kind.
I AM enough.

My newfound armor continues to grow thicker each day, so insulting or hateful words or rude comments no longer sting. They smoothly roll off my back.

I am different and always will be. And you know what? That is OKAY.

Until next time,

Warrior Megsie