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.