I held it together until bedtime. I was exhausted; instead of walking around the Westside until I felt no pain, I spent the day making connections with old friends. Seemed like a good idea at the time, until the insomnia hit and I screamed at my husband– I want to be normal, I want my life back. What did I feel like before the shit hit the fan?
I’m desperately in need of a friend, only now I’m unfit and too too needy. Recurrent pregnancy loss and schizoaffective disorder have made me intense, I wear my pain painted across my brow and people are afraid I’ll swallow them whole. My friends are weary from soothing my panic attacks and dodging my irritable fits and I’ve watched them vanish, one by one. I am so sorry, I whisper, but like an addict or someone irrevocably damaged I find I cannot stop. I used to be charming and magnanimous but I have become so. fucking. delicate. that everyone is afraid they’ll be the one to see me break. I freely give them permission to disappear, to slip away. They text me occasionally, the subtext is they still care. I forgive them. I’ve become a monster.
I overslept this morning, missed my un-sexily planned morning intercourse. I think it’s CD13? I’ll go though the motions, Fertility Friend predicts ovulation Monday, which is also the consultation with the fertility clinic. The fee is a hardship; I fear we’ll hand over our hard-earned cash only to be told they won’t help us because of my copious psych medications. My eyelids droop as I contemplate. We can do this. It’s just my dreams of motherhood, nbd. I need a connection, please reach out.
I need a lot of things.