Tamoxi-$@*!ing Hell
- Surviving Breast Cancer
- 10 hours ago
- 2 min read
By Lindsey Campbell
Fat where it wasn’t.
“Exercise can fix it”—but it doesn’t.
Constantly dehydrated and dry everywhere.
Skin, hair, eyes, and even down there.
Awake all night and exhausted all day.
But my doctors say it’s the only way.
Mood’s up and then it’s down.
I feel like I’m too much to be around.
Anxiety hangs over me like unbreathable smog.
And my brain’s sharpness is dulled by fog.
Hair and eyelashes falling out.
Can I keep doing this? I have my doubts.
Waking up in a puddle of sweat.
It’s uncomfortable always being soaken wet.
Heat races over my cheeks and ears.
(I hope one day this rosacea clears.)
Little did I know, after I rang that radiation bell.
That soon I’d be in Tamoxi-fucking hell.
But there is a side effect I kinda like.
The one that tells people to take a freaking hike.
Because the drug-induced flames inside of me?
They burned away the need to please society.
Yes, I’m fatter. Drier. And moodier than ever.
But I don’t give two flying fucks if you care what-so-ever.
I choose my health and myself first.
When it comes to self-sovereignty, I’m now well-versed.
Doctors told me Tamoxifen would save my life.
And I think it already has–even if it causes me daily strife.
Because I’m more me than I’ve ever been.
I’ve never felt more at home in my own (itchy) skin.
So even though this feels like a baptism by fire.
I’ll keep standing on this Tamoxifen pyre.
Whatever’s left will be me at my most pure.
But until then, doctors, can you PLEASE just find a God damn cure?
Visit Lindsey’s Substack: https://substack.com/@lindseym1
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