trapped on the fringes?

Last night, I dreamed of a fiery dragon. He was my last hope and for puzzling reasons, I woke up confounded about the dichotomy of predestination and free will. Since I lost Molly, my spirituality has become contingent on neurotic superstitions and a terrifying loss of any illusion of power over my future, a future that is bound to be much, much harder than I ever anticipated. I am impotent against a Universe that deals me damaging blow after blow — I have been fighting fate, and I have lost.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” my mother told me, referring to my ability to have children.

And I am spiraling, and I have no control, not even over the basic biological processes that are created in my own body and that most woman have the luxury of taking for granted. My eggs are but dusty vestiges of a reproductive process I imagine was once robust with all my youthful folly. I wasted so much time, jumping from one dead end relationship to another before marrying my soulmate at 34 and it was already too late for hoping.

I had a relaxing Thanksgiving; it was just the two of us. Geoff made a delicious traditional meal, we listened to one of Leonard Cohen’s more mellow and melodic albums all day, had obligatory phone calls with our geographically distant families and it was so insanely good to just feel a little okay for once. The days that followed, however, were full of desperate anxiety and panic attacks that came over and over in relentless waves as for the first time since our tfmr, I saw old friends.

I sense it may be possible to slip back into my old life like nothing had ever happened, but the fact remains that a huge chunk of the woman I used to be is gone. All my hope, optimism, faith in humanity, and easy empathy — those once vital attributes have atrophied and become necrotic. I may have waited too long; I may never get that part of myself back and I’m not sure if I can fake it. Recurrent pregnancy loss has changed me and not for the better.

And these friends, who despite everything I love dearly, have really hurt me. Their disappearance at a time we needed the support so badly…well, it has been a sting from which I’ve not fully recovered and their sudden renewed presence in our lives seems reliant on our being “back to normal”.

So I lie here wondering if I’ll manage to get out of bed today, momentarily relieved of the social obligations of another hell-ish holiday season without my babies and I’m fairly relaxed compared to the way I felt this past weekend and I have no idea how I’ve managed to keep going but no matter how hard I try I can’t just let it go…

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jersey barrier

The sun doesn’t come up anymore; it is winter in Western Washington and I’ve increased my dose of vitamin D as per doctor’s suggestion. She didn’t check my levels, just said practically everyone she sees in our rainy climate is deficient so I should go ahead and take more. Maybe it will help with my depression, which is crushing and inescapable and I believe is at least partially artificial, an unfortunate fact of my body’s response to Femara — another issue is, of course, my grappling with giving up hope for a family of my own. I don’t feel like my moods are doing their bipolar cycling thing; I don’t think med adjustments will save me from the gravity of my feelings about childlessness.

I’m tired of fighting, of waking up and abruptly finding myself in a state of vigilance against possible heartache, my nerve endings already singing battle hymns as I descend into hypersensitivity. I check the news and am frustrated with those in power, but mostly I don’t understand why under an insightful analysis of ethnic cleansing in Myanmar there has to be an announcement that Chrissy Teigan is pregnant — like, does anyone care? I understand she has struggled with infertility but I don’t really know the specifics, or, indeed, who she actually is and what she’s contributed to the arts (I don’t own a TV and am largely indifferent to pop culture in my old age). I hate pregnancy announcements and find they are the most triggery thing I am regularly exposed to, and maybe she’s dabbled with assisted reproductive technology…all I know is she’s on number two and my broke ass is still on zero.

Oh god, I’ve witnessed so many miracles and I’m just left wondering, “Where’s mine?”. Ugh, enough of the self-pity. Once I get started, it never ends. And I’m 7dpo, I know it’s early but I already know in my bones that I’m, once again, not pregnant. 

In December of 2014, I found out I was pregnant with Molly. I remember so clearly. I had sent Geoff to our favorite restaurant, a Mongolian grill where you assemble a meal and then they cook it, for takeout. He knew what ingredients I liked, I had the same thing every time…shrimp, scallops, broccoli, the sauce designated “sweet”, etc….unfortunately, the restaurant owner had decided to offer more exotic options that day, and my dear husband who refuses to invest in prescription eyeglasses and instead buys reading glasses from the dollar store mistook octopus for my scallops and attempted to feed it to me (I am not an adventurous eater). I didn’t even eat any, but I threw up for about a week from disgust before wondering if my distressed response was perhaps some sort of biological overreaction. Sure enough, it was morning sickness. We got our first BFP.

I was so fucking happy. We had only tried once. I honestly thought we were having a baby, that I must be pretty fucking fertile. Eighteen wonderful weeks, ending in despair like I’d never imagined, having to have a fucking second trimester abortion for fatal chromosomal defects. She would be two by now but instead my arms are empty and I’m ready to quit . It’s just a fluke, said the perinatologist, said the genetic counselor. It’s very unlikely it will ever happen again. Uh huh, right.

I remember how happy my dad was when I told him we were expecting. How he was already making plans to come out and see me And Geoff and baby, who was due in September. And I remember my mom not being happy at all, and me not even caring. And now I think nothing good will ever happen again. What will I do? Next summer at 40 years old, then at 50, at 60? What will I do?

Infertility stories are supposed to have happy endings, or, at least, they seem to have them for most of the people I’ve communicated with over the years. They are supposed to tell of perseverance and determination, of overcoming all odds, of blessings from above. My story ends in pain and suffering that will never go away. My head throbs and I find myself reluctant to eat and take my meds, shivering with anxiety as panic grips me by the shoulders. I pull my little cat close — I am very very sick today. I reach for some candy, and for the Restoril. I just want to feel better. Maybe tomorrow I will.

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.

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.

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.

ghosts

My uterus is full of ghosts. Sometimes I still wake up feeling flutters thinking Molly is still within. I couldn’t save her, but I will never forget. She touched my life so briefly that my mind is boggled by the impermanence. In my dreams, I never see her face.

The world spins on its axis, inevitably circling a sun that never warms me. I find myself shivering cold and impassive, an automaton seeking blood. I stumble through interminable days as the seasons change, inexorable and relentless. My hair covers my face, hanging down in greasy tangles; impatiently, I toss it back over my aching shoulders and try to go through the motions of living. How long has it been since I’ve sat sipping cola on the beaches near my distant home? How many summers will pass by unnoticed as I lay tangled in blankets with the shades drawn, no sunlight, no escape from my self-imposed prison? 

CD 13, a day that counts insofar as I might be in my not-so-fertile window (RE says I have less than a 2% chance of conceiving a chromosomally normal baby the old-fashioned way). I continue to troll infertility forums and fuck, wondering if my sins are revisiting me because this is a special region of hell that I never dreamed of when I married my loving husband five years back. Perusing my wedding album is like being stabbed in the heart, me in my black thrifted dress smiling at friends that have all but disappeared leaving me to wonder how things took such a turn for the worse.

Fuck infertility and recurrent pregnancy loss. The anger is the worst, the thing that drives me to perdition and forces me to dig an alligator filled moat around the squishy core of my being just to keep love out because I’m sick of everyone’s disappointed stares and radio silence when I pathetically rest my hands on my now-empty womb and keep them there until the sorrow spreads to my eyes. 

And I remember all the saddest things…
 

words i whipped out as my husband cooked me dinner

I walked into my therapist’s office feeling broken, and left feeling pretty much the same way. I don’t know what I was expecting, really. I don’t know why I still seek comfort from a woman that has four grown children and grandchildren. 

“Miscarriages can certainly be disappointing,” said the woman who, over the last fifteen years, has saved my life and my sanity more times than I can count.

Words swirled in my head. “Disappointing”. How about invalidating, minimizing, silencing. You fucking bitch, what’s wrong with you, I’m bleeding??? She hesitantly ceded that yes, my eighteen week pregnancy termination for medical reasons was a traumatic event, and my subsequent nine week miscarriages were “re-traumatizing”. 

I honor the memory of each of my lost children. Molly, yes, Molly was my closest. I wear her name tattooed on my forearm, under the little Moomin tattoo that Geoff and I used without permission on our Xeroxed wedding invitations (once a zinester, always a zinester, I suppose). I felt Molly moving inside me, yes, Auntie, a fetus just shy of nineteen weeks does move and quite certainly is more than a blob of cells “barely the size of the tip of my pinkie with no discernible features whatsoever” (and yes, I believe in abortion nonetheless). 

People talk to me about healing when I reach out in the land of the Interwebs. I have a very strong drive, perhaps a habit formed from years of group therapy for my bipolar/schizo stuff, to find others who have suffered in similar ways that I have. But those women all have rainbows, or rainbows on the way. My search for women who are childless after loss hasn’t unturned much of a support network. There aren’t any therapists specializing in infertility and pregnancy loss in my area, and the pregnancy loss support group here in town is sparsely attended by young women that just want to talk about getting pregnant again (and is run by the chaplain at our local Catholic hospital to boot). I don’t actually want to get a new therapist after cementing a strong therapeutic relationship with my current one–fifteen years is a very long time to be working with someone. I just want to make her see me because I feel invisible. 

What do I do? Where do I go? I’m terrified, being so alienated but I’m even more scared of the insensitive comments, especially from those closest to me. That’s why I don’t leave my house. That’s why I don’t talk to any of my friends.

 violence

CD 3 came and went, and I didn’t take the Femara. But here I am, still a train wreck. My little cat curls up behind me and offers comfort as my mind spins and my body shakes. The thought of facing another fertility window, medicated or not, paralyzes my limbs and I feel them heavy against our hard mattress with the memory foam that fails to yield to the bones that jut from my tender flesh. Everything hurts today, and I am alone.

Halloween marks one year since the tragic end of my first pregnancy after my eighteen week abortion. My only natural pregnancy loss, when I passed the gestational sac as a cold, dispassionate tech rammed the dong wand roughly inside me, refusing to allow me the dignity of losing a baby in a private solemn moment with my husband by my side and refusing to honor me as the pain and cramping wracked my body, because the Rules dictated that she take the dimensions of the wasteland I call my ovaries like it was the only possible time for them to do it. We had seen a heartbeat weeks earlier, but our second baby was dead and gone.

I hate the term “angel baby” because fuck God for needing angels. I don’t believe in angels or heaven anyhow.

Coincidentally enough, I arrived in the States at three months old on Halloween of 1978 to meet my adoptive family at JFK International airport. It’s always been a special date for me and my parents and I hate that now it’s tainted by grief. And, whew! If only adoption now was as easy as it was then.

At this point, I’d rather stick my arm in the garbage disposal and flip the switch than face another TV ultrasound. This isn’t an abstract concept to me; if offered that choice, I’d genuinely prefer a maiming to another date with Wanda, followed inevitably as always by heartbreaking news. I’m scared my already dysfunctional mind will someday just crack wide open–it has happened before, why shouldn’t it happen again? I feel burdened and weighed down, my back aches and I cannot tell if it is physical pain or a metaphorical projection.

Scruffy has taken paid time off, in as such as I feel no more hope but I am paying for it in blood. I’ve bled out three babies and my god, there is so much blood it is as if an act of violence has been precipitated against me and I stand as a survivor that nonetheless is permanently damaged and too sensitive to step out into a cruel world devoid of caring. I really don’t think I’m going to get pregnant again, yet am occupied with the fear of another loss, especially another abortion for medical reasons. So many possibilities for suffering, and I’m, like, I’m half-past give a shit. Do I go back on birth control? Will I even be able to afford birth control? *wry grin* Fuck the President too, while I’m at it…hey, I already took a shot at God.

I don’t think I can go on trying until I’m 40, the way I’ve always said. I think I need to save myself and my sanity before then, and if I must accept childlessness in order to accomplish that, so be it. 

reprinted from my fb

Hey there Paul Ryan with your smug little grin…fuck you! I understand that abortion is a touchy subject with women experiencing infertility, but if you are not pro-choice, you’ll probably want to unfollow me right now…or else read on and see if my words make sense to you now.

It’s taken me a day to process how I am feeling about the 20 week abortion ban, the Pain Capable Pseudoscience Bullshittery Act, call it what you will. I’d sworn off talking publicly about the second trimester abortion I had on April 7, 2015 because it caused me so much pain — no, I didn’t mind being called a murderer or being compared to Casey Anthony, but apparently it made my friends uncomfortable and Geoff and I experienced a great deal of alienation from even our most liberal friends. It’s been over two years since we decided to terminate our first, meticulously planned and much wanted pregnancy due to our daughter Molly’s fatal chromosomal defects and I am still nearly incapacitated with grief, sorrow, and loneliness. We loved Molly more than anything; she was the product of our love for each other.

I did not choose to abort for shits and giggles. I did not choose termination because we didn’t want our baby, because we were irresponsible. It was not a nbd situation…it nearly destroyed us. And incidentally, we didn’t walk into a rundown clinic past protesters with me visibly pregnant because we didn’t want a disabled child…but I might have (that wasn’t our situation, but had it been I may have chosen to terminate nonetheless…I can’t say).

Since I was 36 when we conceived Molly, my obstetrician recommended having early genetic screening done at 12 weeks gestation because at my age there is an increased risk of chromosomal abnormalities. We opted to have the Nuchal Translucency scan and we did so without much foresight. I didn’t anticipate bad news, we were arranging to move into a bigger apartment and let me tell you, as a disabled Medicare patient, had I known how much money our out of pocket expense for this scan would end up costing us, I would have skipped it. The level 2 ultrasound showed a 10 mm cystic hygroma and the beginning stages of hydrops fetalis. We were told a perinatologist was driving down to Olympia from Tacoma just to speak to us. After much ado, we were advised to have a CVS done to check for chromosomal abnormalities and we would have done that had they not informed us that our only chance to have this test would be to get to Seattle in 45 minutes…it takes 1.5 hours to get to Seattle!  Remarkably, we were told these defects may very well go away on their own  (we now know this was nothing but false hope). We opted to wait until 16 weeks to have the gold standard test, the amniocentesis (the clock’s ticking down).

I had 4 weeks to wait, 4 weeks to bond with my unborn child. Every day, I listened to her heart beat on my at-home fetal Doppler. For 4 weeks I prayed Molly would be okay.

At 16 weeks and change, we went back to our perinatologist. Level 2 ultrasound showed the large cystic hygroma had grown, and Molly had developed full on hydrops, fluid around her and inside her that left no room for growth, no room for organs like her lungs to develop. She had a severe heart defect, along with a huge list of additionally defects. They could not perform the amnio and suggested we try again in 2 weeks (tick tock).

We opted then to terminate and did so at 18 weeks and change. Our hospital is Catholic, our local clinic did not perform second trimester abortions. We drove to a shabby building in Tacoma, where I met the kindest people in the world. The grief counselor and the doctor performing the dilation and evacuation procedure (which is a 2 day process so brutal and painful I still wake sweating from nightmares about it) held my hands. I’d been administered Valium and anesthesia, both of which cross the placenta, and if she’d been able to feel pain (real science says she could not have)…she would have no awareness when they stopped her heart. I asked them when it would start…they told me it was over. “I am so sorry,” the doctor said softly. They were still holding my hands…I was moved to tears at their compassion at the darkest time of my life.

I came in under 20 weeks. Any more setbacks, a couple moments of very human indecision…the Republican party would love to see me jailed. Geoff and I were both privileged enough to have been raised in solid families. Our value systems would not have allowed us to keep Molly, who, had she survived to viability, would have been born without the ability to draw a single breath. She would have died in front of us and it would have destroyed us all. We could not in good conscience have let that happen to her, to us. My own physical health was at risk as well… mothers with hydrops babies can develop Mirror Syndrome, where fluid builds up in her own body and can threaten her life.

On my road to healing, I have met many other women that have endured the same as Geoff and I, and worse. We are not monsters–we are making painful decisions with our healthcare providers, decisions about our bodies, our families that are well thought out and emotionally devastating. And I’m angry, really fucking angry that at our time of greatest need our rights are being chipped away by who? These fucking clowns that have no fucking clue what it’s like to have a  and deal with the responsibility of carrying a child? These are women’s basic rights…it was my basic right to make the most painful decision I’ve ever been faced with in my life to do the best thing for myself, my baby, and my family. You fucking right-wing nut job Representatives have no business in my body or personal affairs.

And don’t even start in with the thinking I’m an exception. I am proudly pro-abortion even though I myself can’t seem to have the healthy baby I’ve always wanted. I believe that the existence and availability of the abortion procedure is fundamental to allowing women true autonomy over their bodies and thus equal rights in society. Anf if you think you can protect the rights of women in my situation without protecting all women, you have another think coming. Facebook informed me yesterday that it’s been 37 weeks since I last updated my status…almost enough time to carry a baby to term. I return to you in outrage over this blatant attack on reproductive freedom. Please…support abortion rights for women, support organizations like Planned Parenthood and NARAL and support women like me retain a say in the decisions we make for our own health, well-being, and families.

a desert island with you

I’ve let silence settle in a cumbersome mass around my shoulders and heart. Words are sticky in my throat and I wake from fitful sleep gagging on jumbled mussitation. My mind is clear yet offers no insight. 

My mental health providers would disagree, I’m sure, but I really don’t feel as if I’m experiencing bipolar depression. I don’t lack motivation because I’m too depressed to give a shit, but instead find myself living in terror of random acts of God that will cause me to suffer more. I haven’t stopped walking around the Westside because I lack energy; I’m acutely terrified of being struck by a car, becoming a victim of violent crime, having my feelings hurt when I try to explain to a rogue tweaker that I am not withholding cigarettes because I lack generosity but because I, in fact, simply don’t have any so could s/he stop  threatening me? I don’t stay in bed because I feel there’s no point in getting up, but because I’m petrified of going about my day and forgetting I am cursed only to receive news of something terrible that is going to hurt me even worse than I’m already hurting. The events that have transpired in the last three years (losing babies, botched surgery, medical complications, infertility) have left me acclimated to receiving horrible news, to being struck by lightning.

I don’t feel my moods are out of control save from when I take Femara and in fact, I think taking Femara has only underscored the fact that my moods have been relatively stable since receiving news of Molly’s many incompatible-with-life defects. I think my psychotropics are doing their thing. I think I am, for lack of a better word, shellshocked. And I hate to use that word when there are so many out there who have arguably lived through worse (my brother in law is a combat veteran for fuck’s sake), but I feel the comparison is valid because of the intensity of my reaction. It may be easier for my doctors to diagnose mania when I am simply shaken to the core with rage over the things I’ve endured and a support system that ghosted me because they didn’t approve of a second tri abortion or because my grief made them uncomfortable. And, when I express the depth and weight of my sorrow, I’m sure it’s easier to say I’m having a depressive episode because how could I be that upset over an 18 week fetus (note my therapist has 4 children and my psychiatrist is childfree by choice)?

I need to heal from trauma, but I’m at sea as far as knowing how. I don’t even know where to go for help.

And, just to keep everyone in the loop, I’m 13dpo and waiting for my period…I know it’s coming.