hope is bullshit.

I woke up to an early Western Washington snow, the earliest snow date here since 197-something. There is scarcely any brightness to the day, I agonize over whether or not I will take my 5mg of Femara this cycle, with only hours to go until I either impulsively choke down the pills or say, no more! I have been on this journey since 2014…my RE messaged me to address serious concerns over my mental and emotional health. No one really knows how severely mentally ill people on fistfuls of (pregnancy safe, at least) of psychotropic medications will fare through fertility treatments. I get the impression that very few women with psychotic disorders seek treatments to conceive a baby. Makes sense to be sure.

I have survived all means of suffering throughout my life. I really thought getting pregnant with Molly was my ticket out of hell and fuck, did I love her! I’ve done a lot of work; fourteen years of psychotherapy, getting sober at twenty-five, overcoming the tragedies that plagued my younger days.

I’ve always been young; all the sudden I am old. I am tired of waking up fighting, of being hypervigilent, of all the fears that beseige me from which sleep offers no respite. I am very tired, and I’m only 39.

I lay here wrapped in a towel, shivering from the chill that follows a scalding hot shower in the winter. Time continues to ebb and flow, to skip beats, to disappear. I am dimly cognizant of the fact that I am proceeding like a train with no brakes, tumbling forward to no good end, winded and terrified of the crash ahead of me. I am destroying myself, and I can’t seem to stop. My hope is to hit bottom in a safe place, with Geoff by my side to transport me someplace safe…

The hospital. More specifically, the psych ward, ole 1-South at  St. Peter’s, a place that’s rescued my sorry ass more than a couple times. In my head, it’s the same as it was 13 years ago when I last visited. Where they have me stay nearest to the nurses’ station because I am not in touch with reality and may end up causing trouble. It’s a place I remember as safe, not like the other hospitals I’ve been in. Above all my worries and late night panic attacks, I’ve always felt safe knowing I could be there if I so happened to become afraid of myself again. My foundation is cracking, reality is fuzzy at best. I don’t want to end up there again, but for me it’s always on the horizon.

What will happen to me if I can’t let go of something that’s commanded my life since 2014? The elusive take home baby that I very likely will never hold. The family I need so badly. How can I let the last three years wind up as a complete waste of time?

And outside children are playing in the already melting snow, I am thinking of rebuilding a brand new life but am paralyzed, heart frozen, sometimes catatonic. I don’t feel like having sex anymore. I am researching IUDs, because if I stop I must let go of all this irrational hope.

And the heat is cranked up, I’m under a Pendleton blanket that I inadvertently inherited from Billy Frank, Jr. (look him up), I am shivering and shaking and I wonder if I’ll ever really feel the sun again.


always bleeding…cd1 blues.

It seems widely agreed upon that the way you heal emotionally from pregnancy loss is to have a healthy baby and move forward with your life. That will not happen for me. My grief has only intensified as I’ve struggled to conceive after my 18 week abortion for fatal chromosomal defects in Spring of 2015, and I’ve had two nine week miscarriages since, and the heartache has piled up on me and left me reeling. I mentioned yesterday how hopeful I was before our second pregnancy ended in  painful and bloody tragedy; I’ve reached the point at which I am less frightened to face a childless future than I am to experience another loss. I think if I were ever again to have to lie on my back in stirrups, frantically anticipating bad news while scanning the ultrasound tech’s poker face for any clue of how things are looking in ole Mr. Uterus — I think I’d pass out from the terror. And to wait for the doctor again, shivering uncontrollably while simultaneously sweating and panting, until whatever OB has agreed to take me on (I’m a difficult patient due to my anxiety) comes in somber-faced and saying how sorry she is…

I think I’d lose the last tatters of my sanity then and there. My ovaries have been faithfully spitting out chromosomally compromised eggs at since I was thirty-six or maybe earlier; my uterus, on a whim, will cheerfully implant and try to grow them…

Donor eggs are not by any means financially or medically possible for us; adoption is not an option either. 

I’m crying uncle. My mind spins as I grieve, leaving me disoriented. You’re gonna be late for work, I tell my husband at 8pm, convinced I’ve already slept. His brow furrows in alarm. No, sweetie, he answers. It’s nighttime. I’m right here.

I’m bumbling through my days. Wake up, take my happy pills. Ziprasidone, oxcarbazepine, paroxetine, benztropine, temazepam. I eye the bottle of letrozole, feel a sense of impending doom. Absentmindedly, I chop eight inches off my hair (I’ve been on prenatal vitamins for four years and nobody even notices if I lob off chunks of it…it was that long). 

The tattoo on my forearm makes me pause as I examine myself in the mirror. I stare at her name, Molly, now permanently inscribed on both my arm and my heart. I imagine her as she has appeared in my dreams, black hair, dark-skinned like me, maybe, always out of reach. Maybe in some parallel universe she exists, things worked out like they were supposed to and an alternate version of me holds her close, makes her smile. Maybe one of my miscarried babies is there with us too, crowded on the bed on a Wednesday morning, me catching Geoff’s eye and feeling the way normal people feel. You’ll be late for work, I say, this time at the correct time and he kisses us all and heads off to his shop…

But today, another CD1, it is always CD1 for some reason, time loops around and around and I am spinning out, words that I use like devastated, damaged, broken; I’ve repeated them time and time again and they’ve lost all meaning. I check the clock but the numbers mean nothing because I am in no-man’s land, drifting, bobbing, at the mercy of the sea. I am thirty-nine, I am 22 and in the psych ward again, I am 36 and staring at a positive pregnancy test in disbelief thinking, well, that was easy, I am 48 and ugly and lonely as hell. I am not here, I am someplace else and I am free.

trick or treat 

I wouldn’t talk to my mother for about a month after I terminated our first pregnancy. She wanted me to have an abortion right off the bat, and hadn’t been supportive of the pregnancy in the first place. I don’t want you to get too excited, she said carefully after I announced I was expecting, at twelve weeks. She didn’t elaborate, and I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t go into the details of whatever the fuck her problem was at the time. I mean, I guess she was right. Although I was blissfully unaware, Molly was doomed from the start.

She called me today. It’s Halloween, and I’m sure she forgot that it marked one year since my first miscarriage. It was the second baby I really thought I’d get to hold one day–I suppose it was naive of me to think that since I’d gone through the indescribable pain of ending a wanted pregnancy in the second trimester, and subsequently suffered 14 cycles of infertility (but they told me Molly’s chromosomal abnormalities were just a fluke!), that I was finally going to catch a break. So I spent the day swinging from the depths of protracted grief to the obsessive distraction of watching for new headlines about political happenings. Halloween used to mean something else to me, my family…thirty-nine years ago, I was adopted and delivered to my patient new family, arriving stateside at JFK International and being delivered by courier to the expectant arms of my forever mother and father, my ecstatic and wonderful maternal grandparents, me, at three months old. So, I let fat tears slide down my cheeks as my mom described her first few moments with her first child. Even though she was talking about me, I felt the sting of bitterness hearing of a joy I’ll never experience.

The nuances of the suffering of infertile couples are lost on my mother, my mother that has breathed a very audible sigh of relief every time I’ve lost a baby. You don’t need a baby. Just worry about you, she tells me, in harsh tones I find completely inexplicable. Only they’re not inexplicable at all; my mom thinks I am too sick to raise a child. She’s seen me at my worst — I must have been, what, 24 years old? when we had our last of the horrible visits before antipsychotics saved my life. They had given me some new med, Serzone (I don’t think it’s on the market anymore, was an antidepressant), and I, true to form, had a weird reaction to it. In short, it made me walk over and over in small circles, endless tortured circles, and I could not on my own volition stop walking in circles–pretty crazy, huh? I think she finally accepted my illness at that visit, and now in her mind, I’m nothing but a mental patient. 

So I didn’t mention the miscarriage anniversary, I didn’t let on I was shaking and crying my eyes out all day, I didn’t mention that despite getting a full night’s sleep, I feel hypomanic AF. I let my mom have her happy memory, told my oblivious father for yet another year that yes, I’m grateful that I did not grow up eating trash on the streets of Seoul, blind as a bat with teeth growing out my ears (my extreme nearsightedness and orthodontic misery have cost him a pretty penny over the years–ah, the narrative of the great white savior that plagues interracial/ international adoptees through their lifetime!) I indulge him; he honestly doesn’t know any better. I let my loving but neurotic parents relive a blessing I’ll never have with my own husband.

It occurs to me that I should take my meds. Three years ago, I was in pretty good shape to accept the challenges of new motherhood, but I have to restate: now, I am fucking damaged. I hung the sign the apartment management thoughtfully provided requesting trick or treaters to move on to the next unit on the front door. I cannot look at children and their proud parents tonight, maybe not any night, maybe not any night for the rest of my life. I crawled into my bed, which has pretty much become my world, swallowed my pills and turned on my heating pad. I pulled the blankets up to my chin and closed my eyes. Bring on the nightmares, I said to myself. They can’t be as bad as this.

part one.

I am dimly aware that it is Sunday and I can’t find the people I love. I kind of think my mind is cracking, I kind of think it’s finally happened, that my worst fears have come to pass and I am flailing as I remember distant scenes from a distant life, times that just had to be better than now but somehow weren’t, a tapestry of tragedy that I wear like a cloak and let shine out my eyes…

  1. A child with wild black hair, sitting bolt upright and alert in bed. It is 4am, she’s already cleaned every surface, the room is sweet with lemon Pledge. She’s rearranged the furniture, small body straining to switch the desk around with the bed, it scraped across the hard wood floor and swished across the carpet and now that it’s done the room is full of people. In the afternoon, the girl’s parents will stuff her into the back of a rickety 1970s Mercedes as she screams and carries on; helpless against their superior strength, she will watch the asphalt rush by below through the holes in the car’s floor and the doctor will explain again that the girl’s whole problem is that she hates her mother for not being her “real mother” and her mother will cry and the girl will hear a hundred voices raised with laughter, and they will go home, the girl will sleep through the night, eight hours, ten hours, she never wants to be awake again…
  2. A teenage girl holding tight to her grandmother who is swaying unsteadily, the girl thin and insubstantial herself, wearing a vintage black and white sweater dress in the heat of June, frantically glancing around a familiar church filled with familiar people, some sitting hushed in pews, some standing at the back fanning themselves with printed programs, some sniffling and teary-eyed; the girl is in a panic, not knowing quite what is going on as the minister and various speakers drone on and her mother weeps openly, and suddenly the girl is remembering the final beep beep beep of machines as her sister’s last death rattle echoed through nightmares she’s yet to dream, and the organ plays, the girl finally gets out to smoke a cigarette and she’s not sure if she’ll make it back in or back anywhere and as she looks around confused again she realizes as her family gathers around that despite what they are telling her now she will be on her own for a long long while …
  3. A young girl gasping for air and dying on an ambulance to Cleveland as the medic calls her “stupid” and wonders aloud how she could have done it, swallowed a bottle of Tylenol and then gone about her day, her next day, her third day until she became so ill she had to tell them all just how stupid she was, and now she is leaving her fancy-schmancy private college behind forever, like she ever belonged there, like she was ever one of them..

    The scenes flit through my brain, 11dpo, bfn, and these are the worst days I’ve lived through but somehow the memories of entering adulthood challenge that assertion and I am sad and miserable and I’m not sure I can even do one more cycle. All I see stretched out before me is a lifetime of just a continuing lonely existing, no goals, no lights, nothing to look forward to, and last night I cried to my husband that I didn’t think I could take any more Femara ever again and through the fog I thought of everyone that has left me behind; I can never be happy for them and bitterness is a heavy weight in the daytime. I’m aware, as my uterus tingles in its definitive way that signals the onset of AF, that I am suddenly sick again…I will make appointments and change medications around again and again and cross my fingers that I will again find equilibrium, the most ambitious thing I dare hope for, and as the sun brightens the sky my husband tells me to take my anxiety pill and rest, rest, all I do is rest, but the cobwebs are gathering again so I listen. Tuesday marks one year since my first miscarriage, two days later is the EDD of miscarriage number two so I focus on getting through the week.

    the last bfn of all time

    Here, curled up around a heating pad in bed…it is a beautiful fall day in Olympia, the kind of day I should not take for granted but as the noontime sun shines unapologetically outside the tightly drawn blinds, I am aware that the magic is not there for me, not today, and I am not sure I will ever appreciate the sunlight again. My husband feeds me yogurt, hands me my lunchtime antipsychotic to stave of the paranoia, but I just feel broken nonetheless. Forever. He dresses, tells me he is running to the market. And I am terrified, shaking because I worry he won’t come back, a tragedy will befall him and I’ll never feel his arms around me again…I have decided to give in to my irrational anxiety because I know I will hate myself if it happens again.

    I dully recall the day at the perinatologist’s office when they first told us of Molly’s defects. I remember when the tech came back into the room — I was so happy having just seen our first baby swimming around in the safety of my womb, so unprepared for bad news and so flabbergasted when she revealed under my unrelenting pressure that Molly’s NT measurement was a whopping 10mm (around 3mm is when they suspect things are bad, chromosomally speaking). She fidgeted, knowing she wasn’t really supposed to tell but I had demanded insistently, and my head was swirling as she informed me the doctor was coming, driving down to the Olympia office from Tacoma, and I swore then I’d never be caught off guard again, I’d never be innocent or naive or allow myself to be blindsided…

    I’m 10dpo and I never test early but I know full well that I cannot physically or emotionally keep going the way we have been, battling infertility, fertile week after fertile week with no hopes or expectations and the unrelenting pressure of performance has worn us down and our timing this cycle was no-fuckin’-bueno although we tried so hard. But here I make a rookie confession — I tested this morning. I never have symptoms during my LP that could be confused with early pregnancy, but this month my breasts are swollen and sore and the only times I’ve ever experienced that was during my three failed pregnancies. So I went out on the patio, found my unicorn Scruffy passed out among empty bottles of Thunderbird and stubbed out cigarette butts, gave him a swift kick to the ribs to rouse him, and I peed on a Wondfo that turned stark white negative after five minutes of torture. I fucking know better, it’s been three fucking years of ttc #1 and when I saw the bfn I knew (I know my body and trust a 10dpo result), hey, girl, something’s gotta give…

    I am telling myself, one last Femara cycle to use that shit up (no meds this month for me, the shit makes me psychotic and I am not just casually tossing about that word, I am schizo-fucking-affective, if that word means anything to you). This was supposed to be a month off but I succumbed to neurosis, oh, that golden egg is in there, and here I sit, finally, truly accepting that I can not keep going for one more cycle after one more cycle, and I have lost this war with my own poor abused body and must find a new way to live. (My husband texts me from Safeway like I begged him to, he is on his way home.)

    What will I do without message boards and camaraderie with other infertiles and me, here alone as usual, writing all day to desperately stave off the long depressive episode that is inevitably on its way, just in time for the rainy season? You know, I fucking hate it when a piece of writing poses too many questions, when there’s too many question marks that the reader cannot possibly answer, but lately I’ve been a tad disoriented and confused (another indication that for me precedes a depressive episode). I gotta pull myself together, maybe focus on our dream of moving out of the PNW, maybe try to find a couple of connections here in the meantime or resume working and writing for social justice but right now I can barely move…

    the moments count even if they’re lonely 

    It’s my second day of feeling rather okay. I still have moments where I cannot suppress that creeping anxiety that has plagued me since I lost my first baby; I still have the occasional five minute spell of sorrow and grief. Yet optimism has returned, no, not optimism about the outcome of this old-fashioned way disaster of this cycle or the outcome of any cycle to come, but I have stumbled upon this sort of faith that someday, I may actually feel better. 

    I’ve spoken to a few women over the past year who have abandoned hope of a healthy baby and moved on…most of whom are still, to be frank, absolutely miserable and isolated. I know that as I move on to grieve the loss of my fertility, the loss of three babies and accept the soul-crushing unfairness that bad things happen to okay people…well, it will be a rough road and through the next few years I will most likely experience the magnified bitterness, the paralyzing anger, and the profound sadness of repeated loss. I will have to steel myself for heartache and a lifetime of seeing happy mamas and their children (I hate when people dismiss my grief and anger at the Universe as jealousy — jealousy is the thing I feel when my friends brag about their Proenza Schuler handbags or smile their way into an upgrade from coach to first-class, a talent that I used to have in spades before I transformed into a middle aged lady). But I am strong enough to survive, even as I lie in bed disabled from psychiatric symptoms that most of the world never has to feel. 

    I did just pop my rescue med, a tiny green and white capsule to take the edge off my panic attacks. So I may be feeling more magnanimous towards the world than I would naturally, and I could wake up tomorrow full of rage and terror and self-pity. I’ll take the brief reprieve, for now. Moments of “feeling okay” are really all I have, but maybe someday the moments will become hours, and hours could stretch out into days, and maybe I’ll never be able to reverse the damage that’s been inflicted on me over the last three years but I can learn to live with it and find, dare I say, a place of healing and peace.

    I’m trying to reach out in unlikely places. I don’t really have friends anymore and only feel safe with my husband. I make people too uncomfortable…no, nobody wants to hear about life with a psychotic disorder, no one knows how to respond when I mention my dead babies, and no one gets my jokes about how crazy I was when I was addicted to cocaine. I’ve become too intense and steely-eyed and have lost my flair for basic niceties. Honestly, I think I make people feel guilty about any good fortune they may have stumbled upon. I torture myself looking on Facebook at pictures of who? My childhood best friend who I ignored completely when she informed me she was living in Portland years ago, a mere two hour jaunt down the freeway. She’s got two beautiful boys now and recently won, I shit you not, $15 million on a scratch ticket so wtf am I supposed to say to her?? I see my old next door neighbor, who messaged me after I publicized my former blog about the second tri abortion of a very wanted pregnancy, confessing she’d had an early miscarriage in between her two living children and is now blissfully knocked up with #3 at 39. And me, where am I, with all my wasted potential, having come off the rails after my sister died right before my high school graduation which culminated in my psychotic break my freshman year of college? Yeah, I pulled it together, but I did a lot of damage to my body and friendships, and now it just seems irreparable. I want new people…

    But my social skills are crap.

    tonight we’ll be fine for awhile…

    I feel almost okay, post-therapy appointment, having remembered to eat and take my afternoon medication in a timely fashion. I brushed out the rat’s nest tangles from my hair, lit an apple-scented candle, took out my contact lenses and put on the new Leonard Cohen album that Geoff found at the Goodwill last weekend…can I possibly find comfort in the banal activities of everyday life without TTC? It drives me crazy how women seem to lose all sensibility during the fucking TWW, testing obsessively from 6dpo onwards and taking to the Interwebs to demand tweaks…oh my boobs are super sore, my uterus feels heavy and I’m getting bfns but whaddya mean “tracking ovulation” do you think I’m preggo what are my chances? Like everyone’s a fucking psychic–there is no way a stranger on the Internet would be able to answer that. I’m over it, really, though I will cop to becoming neurotic during my fertile window. But once that’s done (and this cycle, it didn’t really get done), I can breathe deeply and take it easy, patiently waiting for the bleeding to begin and scoffing at shit like pineapple core and prayer.

    My therapist gave me a bunch of recent copies of the New Yorker…I’ll at the very least be entertained this afternoon, or at least distracted. As much as I fret about her lack of experience with recurrent pregnancy loss and infertility, I still think she’s pretty awesome…for example, I do agree that there’s something horribly wrong with a certain orange faced public figure that plagues both the news and my Facebook feed, but feel dismissing him as mentally ill is insulting to mentally ill people such as myself. There’s a big difference between “mentally ill” and “evil”, my therapist asserted, leaning on her belief that there are big distinctions between organic mental illness and personality disorders, DSM-V be damned. I don’t think I’d do well with a more conservative provider.

    I might be a little loopy, having had decided to give 5mg of Femara a go this coming cycle…I think I’ll be okay, though…eventually.

    the baddest days

    These days, I am extremely fragile. Free from madness for over a decade, I’ve somehow failed to find new trust in my unstable mind. Memories of the Bad Years haunt me, a tiny voice whispers at me, “Remember who you are.” A skinny beauty, weak and occasionally violent towards myself, arms dripping blood as reality swirled around me, dizzy from the pictures and screaming that I would be the one to rescue the latest band of medics from the end of days. A filthy-faced girl huddled in a cupboard as disembodied voices screamed at me that my mom would kill me if she had a chance, unrelenting paranoia and hallucinations, emerging only occasionally to see my caseworker, who sat my psychotic ass down in a ramshackle building downtown and grew impatient as she tried for the hundredth time to explain what a Medicaid spenddown was to a girl not even aware she was on a different plane …

    Besides being a broke(n) infertile woman, I also have a psychotic disorder. I am bipolar I, and I hear voices whether I’m in the grips of a mood episode or not, making me schizoaffective, bipolar type. Does that frighten you? I’ve heard them all my life; I can’t imagine what it feels like to live in quiet like most of you. I function despite the noise, although within gentle parameters. I cannot hold a job without the madness creeping in, I have to avoid stress whenever possible. But now, with medication and unending talk therapy (which I am fortunate to have access too, and am fortunate that medication works for me because it doesn’t always help everybody), you’d probably not peg me a a psychotic woman. High strung, fuck yeah. You may see I lack basic social skills, I have a difficult time making meaningful friendships or maintaining them–I often disappear for years. But today, at thirty-nine, you’d see my anxiety and maybe witness a panic attack and see me cry, but you would not see a girl who used to get handcuffed by police and dragged off to the Crisis Unit in the ER of our local charity hospital…

    She’s still in there but for now is quiet. I remember the perinatologist explaining Molly’s defects to us as I tearfully clutched my stomach. I thought it would break me, that maybe my brain would need a vacation from the incredible pain and the people that weren’t real would come back and whisk me off to madness again. I imagined my frantic husband waking to find me gone, getting in the car only to find me on a street corner shouting that I was chosen to save all of you from eternal damnation and then I’d maybe black out and find myself in four point restraints in some hospital and I’d be sick, really sick, and Geoff would go away forever. 

    None of that happened. I’m not sleeping, leaving my house, or answering my phone but reality is intact even if it’s not good enough right now…mostly, I am very sad and angry, but I am right here.

    And I am okay.

    throwing the towel way the fuck in…maybe.

    I’m not sure where to go from here but I know I can’t stay in this place forever. I’ve been breathing ttc for years now, the cycle of hope and disappointment holding me captive as I barreled towards my own destruction. And I sit at home quietly, afternoons spent with hungry arms wrapped around my little cat, burying my face in his feathery fur and sobbing.

    I have fought; I have been brave and proud. I am exhausted and I can’t bear this horrible addiction to hope any longer. The only hope that remains is scant and unreliable but I still chase that dragon.

    I second guess myself. Maybe I should try to increase my dose of Femara, give it one last hurrah. Ovulation week was a total loveless disaster this month; I can’t do that again. I’ve reached out, listened to the dull sounds of the words “self-care” being bandied about and felt myself recoiling because “self” is my actual problem — I am the problem, with my self-centeredness and self-obsession. I cannot trust a self that is sent reeling into panic if my phone rings or I have to face a simple obligation. My self is sick, and I’m bumfuzzled on how to treat it.

    And I have such terrible nightmares, such terrible memories. And the rain gushes like waterfalls down my bedroom window; I cannot heed the sudden call to hit the streets, to move, to get out and leave this place so far behind…


    randomness and existential crisis

    The rain is back and resolve stiffens my spine — I will not let another summer fall into the sucking hole in my life that is infertility, not when summer days in the PNW are so few and precious. I still dream of life elsewhere, somewhere sunny and warm and closer to family, but I lack confidence as I face the looming threat of slashes to Medicare funding. We continue on here, broken and isolated and desperate for healing.

    What is healing, what does it look like when you’re as sick as I am? 

    I remember seeing my first therapist; I must’ve been in the third grade or something. My mom arranged to have my best friend’s older sister watch my younger sister, so the whole school ended up knowing there was something wrong with me — I was crazy under my mask of timidity and fearfulness. My moods and tantrums baffled my parents and I never slept, and I had an overactive imagination to explain the fact that sometimes I heard and saw things that no one else could see or hear. I was only vaguely aware that there was something different about me, I was doing well in school.  It was the eighties and childhood onset mental illness wasn’t a thing that was recognized by mental health professionals. They said I had abandonment issues because I was adopted. Even I believed them. My poor mother was permanently traumatized, to this day convinced that this is all her fault.

    There was a lot stacked against me, and things got worse after my sister died. I struggled with addiction, I went on meds. Therapists paraded through my life, both caring providers and toxic wannabe do-gooders that should have never been allowed to practice, until finally I found someone that could help me. I was so unhinged but I fought like hell, found people to connect with in a meaningful fashion, and got my disease into remission in my late twenties. I thought I, too, could have a normal life, the sort of life I believe most people deserve. Then I met Geoff, who is amazing, and we lost Molly and spiralled into grief. And then the sickness came back. And I don’t know what to do.

    It’s different now. My brain isn’t cycling through moods, my psychosis is as controlled as it can be. But here I am, shellshocked not just from my pregnancy termination, miscarriages, and infertility but from life and its infinite randomness, by the knowledge that lightning can strike arbitrarily and there’s nothing you can do to prepare for it. Children can be stricken with severe mental illness or they can die of cancer, babies can have their chromosomes put together all wrong, and the ones they leave as living witnesses will suffer. So I live my days in terror. I pray to no one that I’m wrong about the nonexistence of God. I do anything I can to ward off bad luck. And I never leave my house.



    me right now and I’m adorable.

    CD 16, so not in the mood. Overslept, missed my chance with Geoff. UGH.