reflections in my thirty-ninth year

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.


it’s only me.

I saw Molly in a dream last night. There she was, mussed up black hair but always at an angle where I could not see her face. I imagine she looked more like Geoff — his identical twin brother’s kids look astonishingly like Geoff and his brother, but I can’t help wishing for a baby that reflects my own East Asian heritage. Since I’m adopted, there is no one in my life that looks at all like me (ignoring those folk who claim I look “just like” any Asian person they happen to know).

I think if I knew what Molly looked like, my heart would be more at peace. Even if I just saw her face in a dream. Then again, maybe knowing would make me more fucked up than I am now.

I want to go to sleep and never wake up. I’m not talking about suicide; I just want to sleep because the waking hours are so hard and when I’m awake there is no chance of seeing the loved ones that have left this world for the next. If there is a next. After Molly died, I forced myself to believe in an afterlife because I could not bear the thought of never seeing her, never feeling her presence again. I want to see everyone I’ve lost: Molly, my three miscarriage babies, my little sister Meg, my grandparents, the friends I’ve lost to addiction, and all the wonderful animals who have passed through my life. But now, three years after my tfmr, I think I believe there is just oblivion. No God or heaven, no reincarnation. Loneliness. Forever. So I’d rather dream than die.

Of course if there is a hell, I’m probably screwed.

I don’t know how I can feel so lonely when my husband is such a perfect companion for me. I miss having friends, but the friends I always meet are usually batshit nuts that cause me no end of grief and oftentimes a whole lot of hurt. I wish I’d had one friend that stuck around after Molly died, but no one can deal with the sad person I’ve become. There’s me, there’s Geoff, and my loyal little cat that I just love so much it’s silly.* I live in terror that they’ll leave as well. I’ve never been like this before. I used to be so confident and brave.

It’s only 9.15 AM, and there’s a long day to get through. I have a sinking feeling in my heart, and my moods are wild. I would be thrilled if someone reached out to me today, but it never happens.

* I’m talking IRL friends. I have many wonderful friends online, but it’s not the same.


I obviously am too damaged to keep basal body temping. I am obsessing over my stupid chart, and a tiny little temp drop today has lead to depression and misery. I can barely move. From the kitchen, I hear the sounds of my little cat opening cupboards and rummaging around inside but I don’t get up.

These Femara mood swings are terrible. I’m 6dpo, and in the past the Femara-awfulness has dissipated precisely at 7dpo, but it’s affecting me differently this time around. I ovulated, so it worked but at the same time I wonder if it didn’t. I ovulate on my own anyway. All I know is the moods are debilitating to me, in that they decrease my ability to function and even think logically. I don’t know how normal people handle this shit, go to work, etc. I am out of control of my behavior. Fingers crossed thst tomorrow I’ll feel like myself.

My RE wrote back finally and said they didn’t get my messages. I sent them again, but no word. I feel disproportionately stressed at even interacting with any doctors, walking into any medical facility. I try to save up my temazepam for occasions when interaction is unavoidable.

How did everything go so wrong? If I get pregnant again, I’ll surely lose another baby. My fortieth birthday looms ahead — shit, my birthdays have traumatized me every year since I started ttc.

Here is the chart causing me angst:

I just know my temps will start trending down, and I haven’t the strength to watch it.


Hoo boy, are my IF forums triggery lately. I don’t abide unexpected BFP announcements well. I don’t abide veiled allusions to betas well either. Yes, I will hold a grudge. Yes, it will cause me all sorts of grief.

Could really use a friend. My heart is broken all over again.


Please God, let me feel better tomorrow. Is it futile? I’m really struggling this tww, convinced of failure. I’m having knife thoughts, which I haven’t had in the decades. I need a rest, I need a kind word or two. Toxic, desperate…I can’t stop panicking when I remember seeing Molly in my dream. I want to turn back the clock, spend just five more minutes with her. Still four hours to go before Geoff is home. I can’t call my mother, as she tends to be insensitive at best, and my dad always goes on about “fake news” and I cannot deal with that today. I am starting to wonder if the Paxil is making things worse.

I wish I had good news on occasion to share with you all. I wish I weren’t always so lonely and mopey. I wish I wasn’t like this at all.


Mood swings. I feel helpless and hopeless. I fantasize about a doctor showing up while I lie prone on the couch. “Here’s something that will make you feel better,” she says to me. She administers a shot, and the toxic feelings dissipate within seconds. She tells me I won’t have to take three different handfuls of five different pills a day. Just one shot a day, and I’ll feel normal again.

…and the pharmacy just called and they will only cover two 60mg Geodon pills a day. I take four a day. I’m not panicking yet, I took my chill pill. But wtf?

If only there were an easy answer. I need my fucking medication, especially my Geodon. Why do they make it so hard to be a full time mental patient? It’s like they want me to suffer, and suffer I have.

I think I ovulated after three days of creamy sperm-hostile CM. So, in other words, I don’t have a prayer this cycle. I want to drown my sorrows in bourbon, but of course, I won’t. Next cycle will be better, I tell myself, the same thing I always tell myself. It’s getting old. Scruffy snorts derisively and saunters off. He does this sometimes. I never know when he’ll be back. I’ll mope my way through the tww alone.

The hopelessness is familiar by now. I’m on a fool’s mission. I spent my entire therapy session talking about politics, what a waste of $150 and a 50 minute hour. I can’t help myself — I get all worked up. And I neglect to mention that the world is sending signals again (ideas of reference), that I’ve been seeing hooded figures in the shadows. Not the greatest time to be threatening to take away my Geodon (my antipsychotic). I feel like there’s an alligator infested moat between me and society. And none of these doctors can help me.


Why do I only have two modes — can barely move under the crushing weight of depression mode, and freaking the fuck out mode? Yes, yes, I’m schizoaffective, bipolar type, but I don’t have major mood episodes anymore requiring hospitalization. And maybe I’m creating a false history with distorted thinking, maybe it is just the Femara.

Infertility is the cruelest thing when you’re brain is mucked up. You thought you were doing okay? Well, now your ovaries are fucked as well. And normal people are so scared off by the immensity of my problems: my psychosis, my infertility and recurrent losses, my moodiness, the panic attacks and neurotic worrying. Just relax, they tell me. They don’t understand that I can’t.

I flunked out of this meditation class for people with severe anxiety — it seemed like a good idea to take it at the time. I was unable to sit still and I would start hyperventilating, and I was scared I was disrupting the class, so I’d have to go sit in the hall. All the men would crowd around me afterwards (I was young and pretty then), giving me burned CDs and audio cassettes of guided meditations that they swore would help me. They didn’t. The leader of the group was kind to me and lent me books, but I just couldn’t quiet my mind. I stopped going, humiliated.

So, telling me to relax is not real effective, especially if I don’t trust you. Well, tbh, Geoff is often unable to calm me either.

I’ve been to group therapy during times of depression. I can barely talk. Listening to the other members’ tragedies just brings me down more. I try and try, and I know I irk everyone because I speak so slowly, pause for too long before answering a question.

And this feeling that I am seriously flawed in every possible way won’t leave me today.


What happened to make you like this?

And this is where I am. Fat face, unwashed hair. I’m wearing my husband’s Barfly t-shirt and a mohair sweater I bought at The Garment District when I still lived in Boston…I think I was eighteen.

It amazes me that I don’t look at pictures of myself and see the damage. But inside, I am bitter and hard, and if you trigger me I don’t forgive easily.


another tww

I think I’m 4dpo, whew. I hate timing intercourse during fertile week, I hate temping, and I’m sort of feeling like I hate what my life has become. There’s gotta be at least one good egg in there, seriously. I can’t imagine reaching the point where I just can’t go on anymore, when hope is dead. Three years, one tfmr in the second tri, and three miscarriages due to my shitty chromosomes. There is hope in my gut, and though it’s dwindled quite a bit since my first naive bfp, it hasn’t been extinguished yet.

I continue to freak out about the status of my uterine insides. If I had a short stop and go period that was barely more than spotting, I can’t help fretting that adhesions were partially blocking my flow. My uterus is untrusty for a variety of reasons — she’s so overly enthusiastic about trying to grow chromosomally abnormal embryos! And now, terrified by a story I once read of a woman who didn’t get her period after a d&c, and had monthly cramps coinciding with the time her period should happen but no bleeding — well, turned out she had scarring that had sealed her cervical canal shut. What if this is happening to me, but only partially?

I have to stop obsessing about ttc. It’s dominated my life for three years now, and the bitterness is too much to live with for much longer. Take a Zumba class! my mother suggests, as if would be the answer to all my emotional problems. If she actually knew anything about me, she’d see that I am not a Zumba class type of girl. Despite years of effort in junior high, I could not ever learn the goddamn Electric Slide.

And despite my admittedly muddled attempts to nourish my body, I find myself unable to care for my body. Agoraphobia (with panic disorder) leaves me terrified to leave my house to walk. I cannot seem to moderate my caffeine habit, nor can I maintain an appropriate diet. I rely too much on my temazepam, a sleep medication that doesn’t put me to sleep (the only medication that seems to knock me out is, ironically, my letrozole) — I use it for anxiety because supposedly it’s less addictive than your Xanax or Klonapin.

What if I don’t want a new baby? What if all I want is Molly back, and that cheerfully blissful innocence I indulged in before my first pregnancy went so so wrong?

I have a confession. My body and soul ache for another pregnancy, even if it doesn’t get past the nine week mark that ended three of my babys’ lives. The brief times I’ve been pregnant, I’ve of course be nervous but there was an undeniable euphoria that I cannot accept never feeling again. I’d take another loss, because that so-short-lived sense of lovely ecstasy is worth the lifetime of pain I stare down when I think of childlessness.

I’m not sure if the Femara even worked this month. No sore boobs post ovulation. And, I do think I ovulated on CD 14 after all. I’m glad to be in the tww because I don’t have to do anything but wait until I bleed.


Before my last failed pregnancy, I was ready to move on. Scruffy was missing and presumed dead. I was pretty broken myself, and the Femara had crushed my spirit…

But when I saw a faint line on a Wondfo, confirmed by a bright second line on a FREE (even when my beta came back over 3000, my Wondfos were still squinters…still, they’ve always been accurate for me in terms of giving me a yes or no)…well, Scruffy came prancing in, dressed in his garish holiday finery, and spent the next month leaping and bounding out in his pasture, clearing fences because he could not be contained…

I wonder if that was the worst thing that could have possibly happened. False hope, my number one BEC. Since that bfp, Scruffy’s had his ups and downs but he’s here by my side as I race headlong into future cycles of chaos. I don’t want biology to triumph over Scruffy — I’d rather stop trying of my own volition.

Now, even though I’m panicking about Asherman’s or retained tissue or the Femara not working … I hope that I’m pregnant so fucking bad. I don’t want to be a tragedy, I don’t want to end my childbearing years with tears and rage and broken faith.

And as cliche as it may be, I can’t stop asking why me? I can’t turn off the bitterness and rage. I know I don’t deserve a baby, but plenty of other women who don’t deserve a child have one anyway. Or two. Or six.

And despite years of disappointment that should serve as a warning of types, I am still so hopeful that the Femara will work again…


I fear the increased dose of Paxil is contributing to the reckless optimism I’ve been feeling throughout the day. I know expectations lead to resentments; yet I’m expecting something good to happen soon. Then I remember all the soul-crushing disappointment I’ve faced these last three years. I don’t feel at all like myself; loss has turned me into a morose individual, always sulking, always bemoaning the unfairness of living.

But unicorns get pregnant, all the time. And really, does the egg traveling towards my uterus give a shit if I am hopeful or sullen? If I get a bfn, will it sting more if I spent the tww spinning out on near impossible fantasies or if instead I sat around hoping to die?

From experience: yes, it will hurt more and I’ll feel like an asshole. This is a fucked up post-miscarriage cycle. My boobs don’t hurt so maybe my progesterone’s too low. My lining is probably fucked up, I’m not sure if I took the Femara on the right days. I have no reason to be hopeful.

Dear universe, when will you cut me a break?



Same thing every damn day. Me, on the couch snuggling with my little cat; husband off trying to get in an hour and a half of the social contact I make so difficult (I am a pathological introvert who is not doing well, and he is healthy and gregarious but loyal to a fault and doesn’t like to leave me when I’m not feeling good). I am in a foul mood, depressed and irritable and it just won’t lift. I suspect it’s the Femara wreaking havoc on my hormones, although not actually producing ovulation — but my usually-clear complexion is covered in acne, I found a hair on my chin the other day, and my uterus has been tingling as it does when I’m expecting my period or about to miscarry. My cycle is fucked, which may be contributing to my grouchiness; or, I could be reacting badly to the bump in Paxil. Or, I could be embarking on some sort of mixed mood episode, though my symptoms aren’t florid enough for me to alert my care providers.

I mean, okay, I had my usual CM pattern that coincided with a positive OPK but no sustained temp rise. Will I have another LH surge, or do I have a follicle that for some reason didn’t release the egg so I’ll get a cyst? Was my CD 1 really CD 1?

I’m tired of being always beholden to my moods and ovaries. The voices chatter in the background, and the content of what they tell me reflect my mood state. They laugh at my infertility, suggest I hurt myself. If you hear voices like I do, the number one rule to living with them is to not listen to what they say to you (number two rule is to not talk back to them in public). Easier said than done, but medicated me can keep them in the background and, say, not go running of to a new city without telling anyone where I’m going, not cut stars and hearts into my skin, not start shit with the cops. I’ve been living with auditory hallucinations all my life and they break through my antipsychotic (Geodon). I can’t imagine a life without them, but I’ve adapted to them pretty thoroughly.

I sent Geoff off into the world so I could have some alone time, but now I’m eager for him to return. I’ve taken my temazepam and it’s kicked in much harder than usual and I have those delicious chills it gives me after about a half an hour after swallowing the pill. I want to curl up in his arms and feel the heat of his heart.

Even when I feel stabby and toxic, I still would rather not be alone.


weekend whatever

I am miserable with no sleep after recording a temp drop at 1am. I guess I didn’t ovulate, although my body feels like it did. Scruffy is hungover and grouchy and I feel vaguely sick to my stomach. Meanwhile, the weeks fly by and I creep closer to my fortieth birthday.

I had messaged my clinic last week asking what he thought of my last period, if I maybe had retained tissue or adhesions in my uterus, and never got a reply. I messaged again, asking if they had received the previous message. Radio silence. Fine. I feel like my spotty AF could have been due to hormones now, in light of my wacky ovulation issues. Then I think, I don’t have to do this anymore…I could stop all this nonsense now. But I know I won’t. I’ll just keep going.

I bumped my dosage of Paxil again by another 5 mg. I wonder if it will help. I feel immobilized again, my thoughts like molasses as they run from one area of the brain to another. I am exhausted, trying to stay awake as to not jeopardize tonight’s sleep, and I am so so tired of living.


And this is what makes me really crazy. My chart looks like this with no ovulation, but Scruffy is still dancing to Billy Idol’s Greatest Hits, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a frosty 40 oz. Olde English on the table in front of him (he has to use a straw). And I am sick of it; sick of these charts, sick of timing intercourse, sick of the life I’ve had since November of 2014 when we started trying.


liberal paranoia + o day

Sigh. Suggestions about re-opening mental institutions and segregating the mentally ill are bullshit. Having a great deal of “liberal paranoia” (my therapist says this is different from my regular paranoia and not indicative of psychosis as there is historical precedent), I fear they’ll round up all us psychotics, and I will be living in squalor (because really, how much money will they really be willing to pour into these as of now still fantastical long term care facilities? ), apart from my husband that takes care of me so well? Yes, I recognize that I am catastrophizing, as I am wont to do, and this is just my obsessive worrying at play, but for reals this discourse has got to stop.

I live comfortably in my community. I receive disability benefits from Social Security and my income after I pay my Medicare premiums is $785 a month. Who the fuck can live on $785 a month? My husband, fortunately, is a hard worker and we get by successfully, though money is tight. I have access to care; I have a psychiatrist for medication management and a great therapist. My disorder is in partial remission, and you wouldn’t guess that I had schizoaffective disorder if you met me, though I’m sure I’d be anxious.

I live a fairly okay community supported life. I have never been a danger to others, I would never find myself in the possession of a firearm, and my days of self-harm are decades pasts.

It is a fact that a diagnosis of mental illness is not predictive of future violence. It is a fact that past violent behavior does tend to predict future violent behavior.

Why am I even writing this? I already fret excessively that we’ll go to war with North Korea (and now I’m pretty wary of Russia), and they’ll put us Korean Americans in internment camps the way they did to Japanese Americans during World War II.

Geoff reassures me. And I’m pretty sure my mental health providers would go to bat for me if I were faced with segregation.

Liberal paranoia from the girl with real paranoia. It’s been a rough couple months. Hopefully, my sense of security will return soon.


Two more days of high temps, and I’ll have confirmed ovulation on a bright and early CD 14. I hate this part of temping. My CM pattern is off, usually so reliable that I’ve conceived twice on tracking CM alone. On letrozole, my boobs have always been sore at ovulation, and they aren’t yet so it gives me pause. I hate how any type of medication I take affects me differently every time. And my scant period last month has me fretting about my lining, ugh. Scruffy has cleaned himself up and is prancing around, eliciting feelings of apprehension as I watch him dance and twirl. The bfn I’m sure to get at 12dpo will sting, like, a lot. I wish I could get rid of Scruffy. Set him free downtown by the artesian well, where the junkies hang.

I’m fucking sick of always hoping. I just want to let all this go.


timing is everything

As ovulation is impending and we’ve thus far nailed our timing, my hot mess of a unicorn Scruffy has returned. I’m dismayed — I’ve never conceived when Scruffy’s been around. His absence is like a good luck charm, and btw I’ve rid myself of all my good luck charms. It’s just me, Scruffy, and the abject dysfunction of hope facing the coming tww and I want to spend the coming weeks in a cave.

I’m unbalanced. Despite swearing off the java, I find myself sucking down another mug full as my little cat stares at me with disapproval reflected in his saucer-like eyes. I’ve spent the morning arguing with a barely literate eBay seller about the location of the two bottles of ubiquinol he owes me, and I’m alternating between bemusement and unfettered rage. The smell of marijuana drifts down to my window when I open the door to throw seeds to the squirrels, sickeningly sweet and ultimately familiar. It’s the lady upstairs; I can’t protest because it’s legal here.

I wish I got mitteleschmerz but my wizened old ovaries release their shriveled eggs in silence. I had the ewcm, I had the positive opk, but am waiting on my resting body temperature to rise and signal victory. Maybe this is the cycle where I finally run out of eggs. I don’t know anymore. The ups and downs of letrozole have been debilitating this month, and I’m glad I’m on disability and can ride them out.


The day has fallen into a hole. The hours since I woke stretch infinitely in memory and although it feels such a long time has passed, I have only vague memories of what has transpired. I am sleepy and messy, my little cat guarding over my prostrate form. On the coffee table is the issue of The New Yorker I was reading (or was that yesterday?), my face is itchy with neatly cut hairs; I believe I did use the trimmers to even out my bangs.

I am lonely, but my friends cause me great stress. They battle their own demons, and require much hand holding and coddling while presenting flimsy excuses for their presumptuous behaviors. They demand much but give me little. I think of the friendships I may have to repair someday and wonder if it’s worth it, or if I should start anew with meeting new friends. It’s harder to make new friends at forty than at nineteen, and I’ve become accustomed to solitude.

I have a hard time speaking to anyone but Geoff.

At some point I called my mother. I have written about the callous exterior she developed when my sister died. I know she cares, but she expresses her love for me by disapproval. Her voice is stern, and we start our conversation the usual way.

“Did it rain today” she asked me. I replied that it hadn’t. “Did you get any exercise?”

My mother has a major complex about other people’s weight; in fact, this even extends to people’s pets’ weight. She never fails to inquire about my little cat, and in fact seems to resent me because Wendall is slimmer than her cat Buster. I try to deflect questions about exercise; the fact is, in the winter I don’t walk around as much, and I try to brush aside inquiries as to my diet. My weight has fluctuated within normal limits with pregnancies and the resultant anxiety and depression when I lose them, and I don’t want to talk to her about it. It’s as if she has a phobia of everyone she cares for suddenly collapsing dead specifically of obesity related illnesses the second she lets down her guard or turns her back.


Lately, we dance awkwardly around the topic of my writing. My aunt (her sister) bought me a two-in-one to encourage me to write more, and although I spend most of my day writing — I use this blog to organize my thoughts, and work on the craftsmanship of the written word more rigorously in a book I’m working on — I do not share what I write with either of them. They compliment me on my competence with words, but tend to disapprove of the content. They disagree with my every sentiment, particularly when it comes to what I am doing with my life.

They seem hurt that I won’t share with them, but I’ve learned my lesson. I offend them regularly. I remember sharing about my tfmr with them. Although they are both pro-choice like me, and I expected support for my decision, they kept insisting that my eighteen week old baby was “a cluster of cells barely the size of the tip of your little finger, with no discerning features”. You all know I was secure in my decision to terminate, but their argument is untrue plain and simple. They did not approve of my grief nor would they acknowledge that this was not an unwanted pregnancy that had reached the second trimester. It hurt that they felt the need to argue with me about my right to be sad. So, I stopped sharing my writing.

I think they feel they have a right to read my writing because my aunt paid $500 for my kind of basic Toshiba laptop/tablet. I just picked out the cheapest one I could, but I appear to still owe a debt of gratitude I don’t have in me to repay.

I miss the mother of my youth. I’ll never have that back again.


fret fret

So Trump wants to re-open mental institutions and segregate the mentally ill? Fuck Trump. This is too stressful for me to deal with right now (I’m now convinced I’ll be separated from my husband and live out my days in horrible conditions). Will update later when I stop panicking.


just some crazed ramblings

I am angry and oversensitive; rage and hurt swirl in my gut. I feel like shattering glass and I think I might have ovulated. My hormones are a mess. It’s only CD 13.

I lay here lonely as usual, last night’s dreams still haunting me. I wish I could move past dreams of the girls that bullied me in high school, but at thirty-nine, I’m still a little resentful. They torment me in my sleep and I wake up bitter. These were close friends (albeit close friends that made sure I knew how ugly I was at every opportunity) that disappeared entirely when I got my mental health diagnosis — I guess I went from quirky and impulsive to bat fucking shit nuts at the exact instant I first pronounced the term, “schizoaffective”. It still hurts despite the passing of decades. When I dream of them, they are always angry at me. I’m not in a good space right now.

I’m curled up with my little cat hoping my temazepam will soften the blow. These are most likely the vivid dreams I get when progesterone floods my system. Happens every month on letrozole. I wish it didn’t make me so cranky.

If I did smash a dish, Geoff would get mad at me, so I refrain, remembering the stern lecture I received when once out of frustration I threw my phone. I really think it’d make me feel a tiny bit better but not if it drives my husband away from me. Before Geoff, it wasn’t unusual for me to throw things around when I was feeling irritable but I suppose it’s time to get over that.

I’m scattered, I apologize. I don’t know how it’s possible for me to still miss the babies I had for such brief periods of time. My therapist’s words still sting, her accusation that perhaps I’m romanticizing pregnancy…I’m sure she’s pushing me to look into fostering because she doesn’t want to see me have another loss. She really wants me to try and reintegrate myself into society (meh). I know she does care about me from behind her spectacles and professionalism, but today I’m so far gone in the aftermath and know in my gut she’ll never understand. I’ve given up expecting her to, because when I try to explain she does tend to get on board with trying.

Endeavoring to avoid infertility forums. So many insensitive idiots and one particular thoughtless post a couple a days ago filled me with rage — I have not succeeded in letting it go, even though this particular poster has gone AWOL. If I’m obsessing this much on this one little thing, it’s time to step back from everything and focus on self-care.

And out there in the cold cruel world, women are blissfully pregnant, giving birth, holding their sweet babies and here I sit alone hating my life…


I am at this point triggered by everything. I keep contact with friends who are pregnant or have babies that would never trigger me, and I’m appreciative of that. However, if someone sets me off after learning what I’ve been through, there is not room in my heart for forgiveness. I harden to them. If anyone has ever experienced the whole flashback/panic attack combo like I do, they’d think twice before saying shit to me. I hope I’m not like this forever; I do not enjoy being a bitter betty. But that’s where I stand right now.