Going into chemotherapy, I knew there was going to be a plethora of side effects I would need to brace myself for. Several days immediately after my first round of chemotherapy, I experienced fatigue primarily. It wasn’t devastating, but surmountable enough to know that something wasn’t right with my body.

Enough to remind me that I was sick. 

I sat in my German class thinking the entire time, I shouldn’t be here right now. I skipped my next class and went straight back to my apartment during the middle of the day. I stood in the middle of my room, pacing back and forth within the quiet of my walls. I didn’t feel like myself.

There’s also been the bone aches.

Collectively, it’s as though I can internally feel the cytotoxic drugs coursing through my body. I can’t see the effects of the medications, but it’s as though I can feel them traversing their way throughout my body. I can visualize them emerging into my vena cava and then being pumped out of my heart through the aorta.

Then, came the hair loss.

Mentally, I began preparing long before the day my hair started falling out. I knew this side effect was unavoidable and as such, knew that the only forward move I could make was acceptance.

It began in the shower, when my hands pulled away from my scalp taking noticeable strands of hair with them. It was more than the amount of hair that’s normally shed in the shower, and it took me a moment to realize my hair was beginning to fall out. As much as I might have mentally prepared myself for this, I couldn’t have done anything to avoid the hollowness I felt that day.

These side effects I’d say I’ve managed – or at least tolerated – fairly well. After my first round of chemotherapy, I felt like my old self again, at least in the ways that mattered. I went on a five-mile run with my boyfriend — something I’d missed. I hadn’t been on a good, long run since our marathon last fall, and I missed the feeling like you’d miss an old friend. I began working out again, just this time with a baseball cap thrown over my newly short hair.

I’ve felt almost whole again.

But there was one side effect, one challenge, I hadn’t seen coming. 

It’s been much deeper than any of the physical effects I’ve felt. What I didn’t see coming, and what I couldn’t thus prepare for, was the difficulty I’ve had with self love.

I suppose it might be a conglomerate of the hair loss, fatigue and everything else, but trying to love myself has been the hardest challenge I’ve faced.

It’s easy to put on my beautiful wig and toss on a coat and head out the door for the day. In my daily routine of school and work, I almost forget I’m sick. But when I’m back in my apartment and the wig comes off, it’s been hard to see myself in the mirror.

The pixie cut didn’t last long.

My hair began shedding even more than the first day. I slept and showered in a black soft hair cap in order to prevent hair from getting everywhere. When I woke up, there’d always be strands of hair scattered across my pillow.

With every movement, and every touch to my head, hair would fall off.

My bathroom trash can became filled with masses of hair, giant wads of hair hastily clumped together in futile efforts to clean my counter. Significant bald patches began appearing all over my head. These were signs I couldn’t ignore, and they peered back at me with every blank stare in the mirror.

It’s been hard to give myself love lately.

It’s been hard to look beyond your skin when that’s all you see in front of a mirror.

I find myself missing the confidence I used to have and wish I exuded it now. At work during my shifts, I’ve felt my confidence continually wean as my insecurities surge, until I have to excuse myself to go to the bathroom and check my wig. I can’t truly tell whether people have noticed, and are just too polite to pry, or if maybe my paranoia really is misplaced.

I miss my old self everyday.

Last December, bore the creation of two versions of myself. On the terrible day I received the words no one ever wants to hear, two tracts diverged into two different people: the old version of myself and the person I am now.

The old version of myself is loving her last semester of college, having fun with her friends or planning her twenty first birthday. On every shift at work, she’s genuinely happy to be there. This version of myself still exists within me. In fact, sometimes I almost make myself believe I am my old self.

But the current person I am is a bit more jaded towards life.

Spring break consisted of my third round of chemotherapy, which displaced any other plans I might have had. I’ve felt isolated from the closest people in my life. I hole up in my bedroom in my apartment at nights, the only place where the “whole” me ever truly exists. It’s within these walls I let my wig come off and I wear one of the comfy beanies made by volunteers for cancer patients. It’s within the confinement of my small bedroom I’ve truly allowed myself to feel everything.

I think my metric for self love has been— in part—based on what others think of me.

I constantly find myself thinking of how I’m perceived by others and what others may think of me. But as I type this, in this very moment, I’m realizing how exactly stupid this is.

If I’ve been able to pull strength from myself during these hard times, I can sure as hell pull confidence and value from within me as well. I’m still that old version of myself, at least partially. I can miss my old self all I want, but I cannot deny myself of the fact that the person I am now is a hundred times stronger than the person I was. 

And now, I’m going to pick my head up.