An exercise in positivism

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted anything on here, and there are several reasons. One, honestly, was me feeling a bit sorry for myself after my surgery. Getting that diagnosis, going through all of that internal mental garbage really did a number on me, and I was down in the absolute pits of life for a few weeks.

I hated everyone, and every single thing in the universe. I was jealous of people having babies, of people who went on dates, of people who had friends invite them over for coffee,of people who got to move forward with their lives while I was just stuck.

I tried to blog about it. Right now on my phone I have about five or six or six drafts of ideas that, at the time I was writing them, felt like free formed writing, but read more like horribly negative rants of a crazy b.

I’m not that person. At least I don’t think I am, though I’m pretty sure to the outside world I was exactly that.

I didn’t want to go anywhere, I didn’t want to do anything, and sure enough, even the things that made me feel the most alive felt dead.

When people get into this level of depression, or what I like to call, the funk anything can set them off. Mine was a chain reaction….cancer diagnosis, sheltering myself, becoming too dependent on one person for my happiness when he had his own issues to deal with (sorry C) then led to no one calling me, the relationship moving back into an agonizingly hard friendship where I couldn’t seem to say anything right and kept wanting more from him when I was taking everything, to sitting with my parents, watching world’s dumbest on tv.

Everyone thinks there’s some big surreal moment of clarity when the clouds lift from your life, and poof magic happens, and you’ve got it all figured the fuck out. The writer in me wants to say it was watching World’s Dumbest with my parents, but it wasn’t anything like that.

I was so far into the pit I didn’t know if I had actually hit the bottom or if I was standing on a fucking ledge in the dark and the end was further, and darker below.

The light didn’t come back all at once in a bright flash, it was gradual, like slowly opening a curtain, or watching a sunrise….

First, was the checkup. The oncologist said point blank that I never had cancer. You hear that? I repeat I never had fucking CANCER!? and that I had severe dyslpasia instead. Instead of getting angry at them for taking a whole chunk of my cervix and making me feel like absolute shit about myself for five months, I was so overjoyed I had to fight back the urge to kiss my oncologist full on the mouth.

Then I went and saw a life coach, and had my chakra’s balanced. I spent two weeks doing daily affirmations and got over the goofy feeling of looking myself in the mirror every day and saying the lines from The Help

You is smart, you is important.

I started growing vegetables, I dug out weeds. I paid off two years of back student loan debt in under 10 months, I cried, I watched five whole seasons of Doctor Who on Netflix just because, I read nine books, and I started slowly but surely, coming back to me.

It took forever, and fuck, I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m not there yet, but the sky has gone from pitch black to that awesome pale blue and slightly orange where the stars are still visible, and I’m ok with that.

So that’s the second part, being ok with where you are. Being grateful, saying what your faults are kindly to yourself, and being forgiving for the things you’ve done.

Which brings me to the second reason why I haven’t blogged in what feels like forever…I’ve been writing again. Lots of writing! The story ideas are flowing out of me so rapidly it’s hard to keep them straight, or contained. It’s crazy, and it’s beautiful, and I’ve spent the last few weeks kicking ass on my Contemporary fiction novel, Twenty -oh- two and figuring out the plot for my yet unnamed romance novel, and still contemplating whether or not Burn or Dig (the young adult novel, and it’s sequel) will ever see the light of day.

It’s a process, my friends, but I’m getting there. Negative Nancy be damned, Amy the badass is back!

Though, I’m still not sure if this means I’ll be blogging more.


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Standing still moving a million miles an hour

I am lying in my childhood bedroom, staring up at a ceiling that once had thousands of glow in the dark stars, but is now completely and totally blank.

It feels like a metaphor for my future. A tabula rasa in ceiling form. At thirty-three, being here feels a bit like a failure, but then I look at my life, and what I’ve been through in the last year, and it all of a sudden doesn’t.

It feels like success. It feels like love.

My parents loved me enough and were supportive enough that when push came to shove, they welcomed me back into their home with open arms, and then carried me through the darkest days I have ever known with embraces, jokes to release the tension, and shoulders for me to cry on.

It’s that unconditional love, that bond, that I so desperately want to share with someone else. Not just any someone, my someone. That little girl I’ve seen dancing in my dreams since I was seventeen. That unknown, unnamed child that keeps calling me momma. My
subconscious screaming and plotting any way possible to make her real, and yet, there’s nothing.

This dream has been such a part of my life that I have done, and have given so much of it away to reach it. I’ve walked away from relationships with people who undoubtedly loved me, but for whatever reason weren’t ready to have children, or didn’t want them at all. No one goal has shaped my life as much as this one has, and the sense of urgency that plagued me in my twenties has now become a horrible farce of urgency, so much so that I’m at a god damned stand still.

In limbo.

Surgeons and oncologists do whatever they can to help you live the life you want to live, within reason, with cancer. They do, and it’s amazing how far technology has advanced. Every day since my surgery I’m better, I can feel it, but medically, statistically, they’re keeping the numbers at roughly 80%sure I’m clear.

I’ve never been an 80% person. That’s a solid B in my book, and dammit, I was an A student!

But 80% allows me to have children, or rather, a child. 80% allows me to be a mom. 80% is better than a hundred percent with no uterus and early menopause and no baby ever to call me mom.

But I’m not there yet. And as hard as I try to get to the spot where I am ready to be there, I’m just as far away as I have ever been. Financially, I’m ok, but that won’t last that much longer unless I start looking again. Relationship wise, how do you begin to tell the guy who you’ve been crazy in love with for the better part of two years, who has really only been your friend, and then became something other that you want to have a baby? Like now? Before 80% turns into 60% or 50%?

If you’re me, you tell him via text in typical self deprecating humor about raising money to get invitro done, and then act mock horrified when you realize he might actually run the other way if you become a sperm obsessed baby making machine that only wants him for one thing….

But I want three things really, and for other people they seem to come more easily. I just want him, for the rest of my life, and my kid to call him dad. It’s utterly crazy, and strange to think about…..

Or maybe not…he just said I could

use him for whatever I want.

I doubt he knows what a monster he may have unleashed.

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Apparently I have a stalker…

and that makes me sound crazy.  But whatever.


Apparently, there are people out there who hurt you so badly, who make you feel so incredibly upset about whatever amount of friendship you tried to impart to them over the years that they use it to rip your own heart out, leave it bloody by the curb.  Those same people, who treat you like scum, like your friendship meant nothing, are the ones that seem to follow you through life, and relish in your defeats.

Guess what, cancer hasn’t won.  I am winning, I am fighting, so to you, person who hurt me so badly a year ago and threatened to have her supposed “friends” do bodily harm to me, who ripped on my writing style and then claim I never paid her to read three chapters of my novel when I didn’t have a damn dime to my name, and then spread malicious fallicies all over her facebook page like a goddamned high schooler… stop reading my blog (when I have all of seven readers, i think this alone is comical to say, but just stop.)  You don’t get to relish in my defeats, you don’t get to champion my successes.  You don’t get to claim anything on me, ever again.

I am happier now without you in my life, and I just want you gone.  Respect that, don’t contact me again, and move on with your life.  It shows more of your guilt than anything that you can’t let it go. I’ve forgiven you, but I don’t forget that kind of malice.  So just go..


Here’s the door, don’t let it hit your ass on the way out.Image


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Cocoon is a horrible movie

I don’t think I will ever understand elderly people until I am one myself.

This is the height of optimism coming from a person with Cancer, since the “I’m going to beat this” spirit give way to malaise, then apathy, and sadness, then back to apathy.

That might have more to do with my other issues going on, but it’s hard to keep things moving slowly in the right direction when this comes across your path. It’s also harder to tell if people are really just with you because there is a level of pity tainting everything, and you feel completely and utterly alone.

But like I always have been, since the day I was brought into this world, I am the loneliest person in a crowded room. I am the observer. The classic only child that shows her extroversion by being nice, only to hope everyone will just go away so I can watch Game of Thrones in peace. It’s not any different at family gatherings.

I’m not sure how things go on in other people’s heads. To some it must be the elephant in the room to see a vibrant thirty two year old walking into the house with a full head of hair and smiling eyes despite the tears that fell only moments before and not silently say to themselves; “don’t talk about the cancer.” I get it. It’s a holiday, don’t talk about it. Don’t ask how I’m feeling, or anything. Keep asking me about my pseudo relationship because you can’t fathom why I’m single (hi, I know why I am, but that’s another blog post…, which I will probably title something ridiculous like

no one wants to date baldylocks


Cancer, the big purple elephant with tattoos in the room is hiding in a corner, at least when it comes to talking about my cancer. Anyone else’s cancer, well that’s polite after dinner holiday conversation, especially when you’re past your 80th year, and everyone you know is gone from something.

Yes! Lets talk about cancer and people dying of it when there is a woman who has barely lived sitting there with a fresh diagnosis. Let’s discuss the chemo and radiation, the hospital visits…let’s speak about their fight so cavalierly, then sip your coffee and finish your Easter chocolates. With your full mouth you can smack out the words

it was so sad when he died.

Oh, and for good measure, how about you talk about babies?? Everyone’s babies!! Lets just remind said girl with the tattooed purple cancer elephant on her shoulders, who was told at 19 she wouldn’t have kids because of PCOS and now doesn’t know what will happen to her fertility after this about babies!!!!! brilliant!!

I have never wanted to punch elderly people before until today, much less family, or family friends. I’ve never been the dramatic person to kick my chair away from the dinner table so hard it made noise and bolted from the room. I’ve never cried my eyes out in someone else’s bathroom. I’m not that girl. No, the lonely observer watches and records life to play back in different scenarios in her novels. She is not part of the action.

I don’t know if I can be this person. This person that now cries at the drop of a hat and can’t see past it yet. I don’t want to be the girl yelling at her adopted grandparents because it hurts do much.

I already miss being me, and I don’t even feel bad. I don’t look bad. No one would even know, if I didn’t tell them.

Maybe I can blame this all on their dementia, even when there isn’t any there. Maybe I can just do this and not be so sensitive to everything I forget I am the girl who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Maybe….

Who am I kidding? If this happens again, I’m closing a fist.

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How do you tell people about the other C word?

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. But I have a good reason, I swear…

Well, I just found out what the good reason was, so is it really the real reason for not blogging for close to two months? Well, no…but life gets in the way, and you just kind of have to get up every day, fold your laundry, brush your teeth and deal.

Kind of like what I am dealing with now, but I’ll get to that in a moment. I’m still trying to figure out how exactly you tell people something when you are, by your very nature, a very private person. It’s odd coming from a person who writes blogs and posts a daily picture on instagram, i know, but I have mastered the art of being a public persona, without allowing my private life to really be told to the masses. But I guess all of that ends today.

Its hard to tell people things about yourself when you are guarded. It’s even harder when you have news you don’t particularily want to share because you don’t believe it yourself, and then you have people in your life that a) can’t keep their mouth’s shut and tend to gossip to serve their own interests and have something to talk about and b) are just extremely nosey.

That’s not everyone, and I refuse to name names, or place blame, because that’s not what this is about. It’s about me, all of me, the icky parts of me that no one else likes but I love about myself, the people who support me no matter what. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever had to talk about, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say, and at a time when words fail me, and I’m sick of having the same conversation over and over again, I hate that I am doing this here.

Here goes nothing.

I have cervical cancer.

I’m trying to be positive, but I’m scared beyond any measure I have ever experienced before. I’m petrified of what this means for me, for my future, for my relationship and however that may play out. I don’t want to be the girl who everyone talks about and says “did you hear about Amy? It’s such a shame she has cancer.” No, I want you all to see what I look at in the mirror every morning;

A beautiful, amazing woman with so much life, a person who gives everything to the people she loves, and most importantly, a fighter.

Is this the end of me? Certainly not…and I don’t want pity, or sympathy…no, I want everyone to just take their middle fingers, stick them straight up in the air and tell cancer to fuck off!

I’m kicking cancer. I’m beating this.

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My review of Splintered by A.G. Howard

Originally posted on my book review blog at

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January 25, 2013 · 3:58 am

The Saint Bernard Kiss Incident

I received a quick peck on the lips, which I didn’t expect.  After two dates, especially as an adult, you kind of know, instinctually whether or not the other person wants you, but I really had no idea how Simon felt.

I place a lot of emphasis on a kiss, or at least a series of kisses.  Making out can tell a lot about a guy that you wouldn’t normally find out.  If his kisses are languid and fluid in motion, and he seems to savor your mouth, chances are he’ll savor your body when the clothes finally come off.  If he’s a darter, i.e., when he pushes his tongue in and out of your mouth in rapid succession like a knife, or a dart, and his target is your uvula, well, he’s probably a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of guy in the sack.  Those are the ones I worry about, since they don’t seem to care about anything except getting themselves off.

After the time I’ve invested in Simon in endless conversations and two very long dates, I was curious.  Hell, I was more than curious.  This was make or break time.  “Wait!”  I breathed into the cold night air, and watched my words form into steam.  I wrapped my arms around his neck, and said a little prayer that this wouldn’t suck as his lips inched closer to mine.

And then all of my curiosity went out the window, and I knew I should have knelt at the statue of Mary and lit candles while I said my prayer.  Immediately, my chin was drenched in saliva as his tongue aimed like a marksman holds his bow in the quiver, and missed it’s target, over and over again.  He’s hitting the sides of my mouth, my chin, at one point, he even hits the tip of my nose as his mouth completely engulfs the lower half of my face.

It’s all I can do to hold on.  I try to coax him to go slower, to stop assulting me with his tongue, but he wasn’t budging.  Simon was moving to an internal rhythm I couldn’t break.

And with all of that, and the aftertaste of medicine at the back of my throat, like he just sucked down a Halls cough drop, I’m completely and utterly disgusted beyond reproach.

I pull away first because I have to, and I am afraid to open my eyes because he might still be kissing the air in between us.  I try to discretely wipe the lower half of my face against my thick winter gloves, but the air is so cold, the mess he’s made has frozen to my skin like a slobbery icicle.  God, I hate Buffalo winters almost as much as I hated that kiss.

“So yeah, ” I stumble over my words, and find that I have none. “I’ll see you Friday.”  I slip away quickly before he can say anything, and half-run, half-slide through the snowy parking lot to my car. I hope that my non-committal tone says what I can’t, that this kiss was on par with a root-canal without suction, but I know he doesn’t get it.

The ear to ear grin across his face as he waves goodbye to me is proof that he is not only oblivious, but absolutely pleased as punch that he got to first base with me.

I slam my car door and turn the key, hoping the heater will work before I get halfway home, and wonder how the hell I can get out of date number three in a few days.  Unfortunately though, that’s not my most pressing thought.

No, the thought is that I feel like I had just made out with a saint bernard, and I couldn’t get over how anyone, especially someone who is seven years older than my 28 years on this earth could think that the kiss was worthy of anything other than gagging.

It dawns on me as I hit the highway and my ipod is singing through the speakers of my rusty car that he probably doesn’t have much experience in that area, guys like him; shy, aloof guys who are too nice for their own good normally don’t, and I pity him.

Oh crap, I pity him.  This does not bode well for me.  True to form, I will probably see this Friday date to fruition, and kiss this guy again, reliving the wretchedness of this night, praying it can’t be that bad a second time, right?


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