When you’re very ill your whole being becomes engulfed in getting better, every ounce of energy goes into healing yourself and often this can make you insular, like there’s nothing more important in the world than you and your health. One of my chemo nurses said to me that people can often become self absorbed when they have cancer – she meant this in the nicest possible way and for the record is a very caring, supportive woman. At first I was shocked and confused by this statement. But the more I started to think about it, the more I started to come out of myself and look at this from a different perspective I realised that yes, this has happened to me. ME, me, me, me, everything in this world right now is about ME. I’ve written over 10,000 words about ME, I’ve snapped at Barry on numerous occasions for not putting ME first, I’ve spent hours talking about ME and my health, I’ve taken so many selfies of ME and my bald head that there’s no space left on my phone, every reflective surface be it a shop window, mirror or car door I have looked in, just to look, yep you’ve guessed it, at ME – just call me Narcissus from now on. It’s almost like I’m the only person in the world ever to have had cancer, I’m the only human being ever to experience this disease, I’m the only one struggling. And then I kick myself, hard (if I had balls it would be in the balls) back into reality. There are 2.5 million people currently living with cancer in the UK, there were 361,000 diagnoses in 2015, that works out as about 1,000 new diagnoses every single day. Simply put: Get over yourself mate.

But the thing is, this isn’t me. This cancer diagnosis is not who I want to be. I haven’t chosen this, it wasn’t down to my lifestyle choices or unhealthy habits, I had no control over this whatsoever. And so I have become obsessed with myself because I’m terrified that I am losing myself. My real self. My core. My soul. The person I have forged an identity for for the last 29 years. All the things I have done, consciously or unconsciously, that makes me me are slowly starting to fade away from my whole. There is a disconnect, a blurring of my true self. The cancer cells are eating up my body and in their path are slowly devouring my soul.

Suddenly, for the first time in my life my freedom has been compromised. This makes me vulnerable, very vulnerable. The vulnerability seeps from every crevice of my body, shapes and personifies itself in various forms. I have reverted back to my child like state, Ariane circa 1990. I speak in a baby voice. No longer is my voice loud and engaging, but meek and timid. My tongue is hiding somewhere at the back of my throat and for the first time in my adult life people struggle to hear what I say. Confidence and independence? Bashed out of me. I cannot go anywhere on my own or be anywhere on my own. In the last 4 months I can count the number of times I have been on my own on one hand. Female sassiness and sexiness? Disappeared. I don’t want to have sex, at all. And then there’s the lack of hair, which makes me look like a duckling, an ugly one at that, or a big, BIG baby! One night I even wet the bed. Like a child, a small, unknowing, frightened child.

But no I’m definitely not a kid anymore. I have in fact just entered the last year of my 20s. It’s funny how life pans out. I always thought I’d either be married with a baby or winning awards for some amazing career by now. Instead I have cancer. My body has decided for some reason to work against, not with me. I have moved back in with my parents and I spend most of my days lying on sofas scrolling my friend’s instagram feeds, seething with envy at how much fun they’re all having. I don’t want to be ill anymore. I want to be fun Ariane again, the Ariane who nearly gets kicked out of Berghain for dancing on the bar, the Ariane who dresses up as a clown and acts out a silly routine, the Ariane who is fit and healthy and happy. Not this new Ariane, who has to leave her best friend’s wedding at 9pm because she’s too tired to keep pretending she’s okay, who can’t dance for longer than a minute without feeling knackered and who cries pretty much every other day.

But it ain’t all doom and gloom kids. The last few weeks I have started slowly to come back to who I am. I want to run back to her, that old Ariane, give her a huge hug and plead with her not to leave me again. Instead I know it will be more of a reluctant shuffle, half stumble back to her. The shuffle started with alcohol (of course it did)! I drank a whole glass of red wine, did a few downward dogs and then even managed a session at the gym. But more chemo this week has been enough to push me down a peg or two. I feel like all the progress has been zapped out of me, I’m back to square one, lying on that sofa again.

The end is nigh, thank god. I have 5 more sessions of chemo to go and then all being well I’ll be done with this asshole. There’s no rest for the wicked though and so instead of allowing myself to bathe in this glory the next big set of questions start picking away at me. WHAT NEXT? What now? What does having had cancer mean for my future self? Can I just go back to my old life, that old Ariane?

Of course I haven’t really lost myself at all. Rather I am in a state of flux. Of deep personal and emotional growth. Of profound change and spiritual awakening. I’ll be back. Louder, braver, bolder, stronger and feistier than ever. Just with a bit less hair.



9 thoughts on “LOSING MYSELF

  1. So, having a cancer diagnosis feels like being pushed down a big rabbit hole. You think no one above ground in the real world can see you and as you go down and down, bouncing off the walls blindly it seems endless. But, glimmers of light appear, more and more often and soon you can see proper light at the end of the tunnel. It won’t be long before you are out in the air again, and think what fun it will be to have curly hair. You should see mine now, I look like a grey poodle! Thinking of you always, xxxx


  2. It does get easier honestly. I know how crap you feel some days after the treatment but hang on in there. I finished my chemo on Tuesday after 4 months of treatment. Hopefully now it will be onwards and upwards. We are all scared at the start but there is hope and you are doing so well. Please keep fighting. You will make it. Sending hugs xxx


  3. So well said, Ariane!!!! I just came across your blog and I have to thank you for your words, for showing us we can all chin up and be stronger. We can not be hypocrites, have cancer sucks. The uncertainty sucks. It is not the easiest way to learn how to look and see ourselves, if something i have learnt so far is that this treatment will not only clean our cancers, also all that we have around and it is blocking us. You don’t walk alone. xx


  4. hey girl!

    I can relate to this, for sure. I am now up to my 9 year mark post-cancer. I can definitely relate to the identity issues. I struggled with the identity change for a very long time, it’s really difficult, a total challenge. It’s like: “ok you’re better now go back into the world and be the same person you used to be.” For so many years I tried to be that same person but it never really worked. I had to learn to accept the person that I had now become.

    It’s normal to grieve the loss of your old self, actually, I’d say it’s a requirement. That old part of yourself is not 100% lost, it is still within you, you have just evolved into someone new . It’s funny (and kind of sucks) how suddenly cancer makes you a different person. I think the hardest part is adjusting yourself to how fast your world changes (it’s like getting 10 years of life experience in a matter of months), people who haven’t experienced cancer get to adjust to life at a normal pace.

    I am sharing this with you in hopes that you can take the steps to start loving your new self now. This is the best thing you can do for yourself. You have been through so much in such a little amount of time, give yourself that extra bit of love, you deserve it.

    Sending you love!


  5. You’re so eloquent Ariane. I’ve been trying to explain to my husband what it feels like to be going through this and you captured it perfectly. I showed this piece to him and said, ‘Here, read this.’ Thank you for your words and for just being you. Praying for you daily… xx


  6. Hi Ariane,

    I came across your blog by chance and instantly read every blog entry you had and cried and laughed the whole way through it! I had about 100 “me too” moments and your story seems almost identical to mine! I was diagnosed with cancer on the 14th June this year and at 22 years of age, devastation doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt. I’ve just finished 6 awful rounds of chemo and haven’t nearly finished my journey! But anyway, thank you for sharing yours because I don’t think I’ve been able to relate to anybody since June!

    And this particular blog just makes complete sense to me! My life is completely consumed by cancer and all I want is to not be sick anymore and resume my normal life. I want to get drunk again and wake up with a foggy memory. I want to be able to go to the gym and sweat till my t-shirt changes colour. I want to be spontaneous again and book a flight to somewhere with no money in my account. But instead I stay in bed scrolling through my phone or binge watching Downton Abbey. Boredom is all too familiar to me!

    So yeah you’re completely right, grieving your old self is completely normal and I’m currently doing just that!

    Thank you again for your words,


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