I have so much to say, and no one to say it to. Rather, when I do have opportunity for conversation, I fritter it away by speaking of nothing bit trivialities. I have no real clear memories of what I talked about during my last therapy session. When Geoff gets home from work, I am already sleepy and only address the mundane. And on the rare occasion I have to speak to anyone else, I can barely choke out basic pleasantries.
So when I am alone, I write and I feel like I will die if I stop. I am capable of better writing, but there is no time. The compulsion to dance my fingertips over my keyboard or phone never lets up, but I fail to make meaningful connections with the words tumbling over the unread pages of prose. I think this is some sort of psychological phenomenon; I looked it up once, there was a word. The more time I spend writing, the more isolated I become. I could venture out into the world, exchange basic small talk with a cashier or barista or someone, feel I’m a participant of the most minor sort in my community. But I remain locked inside with my neuroses, tears on my cheeks from the loneliness. I cannot break free. I imagine a sane person would not understand, but I am bats.
I am waiting, always waiting. In between paragraphs, I check my bbt chart, wondering furiously if this is the month that will bring a modicum of freedom. To me, pregnancy breaks me out of my self-inflicted imprisonment but it’s only for short spurts of time. I know a BFP means basically nothing because of my history of RPL, my new inability to carry past the ninth week. I know I’ve probably used up all my chances by now and will face middle age childless and grieving.
But the motions are so familiar, the hope has yet to be extinguished. I indulge in self-pity, my poor tragic soul. I take my temperature, I take my pills, I dip test strips into Dixie cups of urine. I count days, and so many days have passed, slowly at first and then all at once. My Prince Charming has been by my side the whole time, but I wait for someone to rescue me.
And here I sit, long hair in hopeless tangles, beauty fading from the harshness of life, and I already have so many regrets…
I am 7dpo, waiting to see if I feel “normal” today. In my past cycles of letrozole, the moodiness and depression faded on precisely 7dpo so hopefully history will repeat itself. I slept well last night, resisted the urge to take my basal body temperature and thus eliminating the chance that I’ll spend the day poring over my chart. I think I’m off to a decent start.
I am suddenly desperately unhappy. Guess the moods are still an issue. My boobs still don’t hurt like they have in past Femara cycles…it’s 7dpo, shouldn’t progesterone be peaking? Unless I have my ovulation date wrong, which is entirely possible.
Infertility is the worst thing ever, even worse than schizophrenia and bipolar at the same time. And to stack RPL on top of all of that…god help me, I am so alone. I know this cycle’s a bust, trust me, I always know — I’ve been doing this for 3 years. My lining is fucked, I just know it and I possibly am full of adhesions. Maybe I’ll be sullen and grey for the rest of my luteal phase, or maybe my mood will shift violently again. Who fucking cares. Not the universe, that’s for sure.
Would it be weird to go down on my antidepressant because it’s making me too hopeful? I’ve written a lot about how dangerous hope is. I don’t want to be crushed at the end of every cycle — even today, long before my period’s due, Scruffy came prancing in, shaking his rainbow mane. It just never works out when he gets too fancy. I think steady depression would be preferable to rollercoaster ups and downs.
I asked Geoff and he totally ignored me. Hmmph.