#and my weird psychosis shit where i have a hard time keeping/seeing the line between

[digitalcockroach]

k im calling it maladaptive daymaring

[eminentfocus]

The Bounce

Last time, we talked about automatic negative thoughts and the antihero: positive empowering thoughts.  We learned some new tools and I spent the last few days practicing them, myself.  You see, this is not just a blog connected to what I do.  It is the actual unfurling of the learning I am doing within myself.  It is a journey to undoing my own personal traumas and psychosis.  I have made a deliberate decision to do this work in the most vulnerable way.  It is hard.  It is terrifying.  It is a lot of reading and studying and masterclass dumps to get to the point of where we are in the rabbit hole right now.  I decided to do this because I understand that we are not taught how to bounce when we fall.  How to take a knee until we can stand.  How to rise out of fear.  Ready?!?  Instead of a dive, today we are going to bounce into the rabbit hole.

Imagine with me that you are in a restroom.  You are comfortable because it is clean, and you urgently need to handle business.  Maybe that was too much coffee?  Everything is fine, so you make yourself just about as vulnerable as a human can, and BOOM!  The automatic lights go out!  It’s dark now and you panic.  You grab ahold of anything and possibly shout for help, ignoring the fact that you are completely indisposed.  You hold tight to that rail and freeze.  Why?  Not because you are afraid of the actual fall, but because you are not sure how to get back up if you do.  You cling to the fear and physically will not let go.  You refuse the first step toward growth for comfort in safety.  Welcome back!  PS: This is an actual traumatizing story that most vertically challenged Zapponians can relate to- I’ll save the turn-styles for another day- not joking!

I will turn to Brene Brown’s research on vulnerability most of the times that we talk about this topic because of the quantity and quality of her research.  It took her almost twenty years to discover what I disclosed above, and she has qualitive and quantitative data to put her money where her mouth is.  Remember, I am a logical person who loves science, so her and I, we’ve got this!  I am enlisting her help today by using her metaphor of the personal armor that we put on in the form of personal protection behaviors.  The “mask” we put on when we are inauthentic is actually an entire suit of armor.  This armor can be seductive to put on if we partake in things like people-pleasing, perfectionism, or the like.  Brene points out that the armor weighs about a hundred pounds, but the resentment of wearing it weighs at least a thousand pounds.  I know, right?!?  So why do we keep putting this shit on?  Because we are more terrified of not knowing how to get back up, than to let go of the fucking rail and walk out of the dark!  There is a thin line between adversity and trauma.  Choose adversity because you must let go to move forward.

It takes courage to be vulnerable.  We’ve talked about this here a whole lot!  But what the fuck is courage, actually?  Well, it’s weird because courage is just a juxtaposition to vulnerability.  Look!  Courage: “the willingness to show up and be seen when you cannot control the outcome”.  Vulnerability: “the emotions we feel during times of uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure”.  Same.  Same.  It took Brene so many years to have a “brave leader” tell her that they were terrified all the time.  She found other “brave leaders” and found the same central theme.  That they didn’t find a way not to be terrified out of their minds, they just pushed past it instead.  What?!?  Yes!  In any risky situation, even the most calm war hero or proposing husband is equally fucking terrified.  How do they do it?  They understand that there is no such thing as courage without vulnerability.  That it is a strength that keeps them out of the negative thinking loop of what if I would have shown up?  Tried it.  Took the risk.  Remember that resentment weighs at least a thousand pounds.  Get comfortable in the uncomfortable.  It weighs less.

Good news is that in all of this pile of data came about the fact that courage is teachable, measurable, and observable.  There are four simple key skill sets that are required that we are just not teaching as parents, educators, or friends anymore.  This is why people stopped bouncing and started falling flat to stay there.  It is not our fault, but it is our responsibility to self-correct.  The next few days we will spend time breaking down the rules Brene discovered, but for today I will leave you with the skill-sets.

Rumble in your vulnerability

Know your values and living into them

Braving trust

Learning to get back up

See you next time!

[weskerrun]

long-ass post

I am going insaaaaane Allow me to indulge to you, my two followers of whom I know-from-in-real-life-but-never-really-do-anything-with-on-tumblr, what disjointed and edgy edgy edgy thoughts are and have been creeping into my head slowly over the past month or so. So! *claps* As you may or may not know, I’ve started working an overnight job as a stocker for a grocery store-- it goes from 10:00 to 06:00, and often over into 07:30 - 08:00 or later. Now, initially, this wasn’t too bad-- I was nocturnal, sure, but that’s basically me, anyways.

However.

I recently started my EMS Ambulance Ride-Outs and Clinical sessions at ORMC. This just means I ride with an ambulance and zoom around an ER for 10 and 8 hours that day whenever I have them. Luckily, they’re never two days in a row, so I usually (Usually) always have a day off in-between to sleep if I must... but therein lies the problem. With my overnight job working me through the entire night with a minimum of about 8 hours AND a combination of having to go into a 10 or 8 hr shift for my EMS...oh, and did I tell you that (prior to getting my work schedule changed), I’d usually have to go into work AFTER my ambulance/clinical shift? For about a fortnight, my schedule was as such Wake up at 8pm, get ready for work Work all night, next day arrives Go home at 6/7 (AM), get ready for Ambulance/Hospital Work hospital all day Go home at 6pm Proceed to get ready for ANOTHER overnight shift because it’s now the next day. Rinse, repeat. Now, like I said, though-- I talked to my managers because obviously a schedule like that leaves me almost literally no room to do free stuff or get enough sleep to, well, live. However, my new schedule, while it allows for a lot more sleep, is still effecting me. My schedule now, more or less, is stay up a night, sleep a night. One night of rest and one of non-rest. Now, this is basically just stacking missed nights of sleep together, and I think they’re starting to add up. And that’s not all, folks! There’s still a Part II as to why I’m slowly losing sanity! I, first and foremost, have an incredibly addictive personality and a unnatural inclination for drugs and drug culture. See where I’m going with this, huh? Since my sleep schedule is nine thousand kilometers past fucked, I take drugs to help me sleep and then I take drugs to keep me awake. Not to mention I still smoke cigarettes AND i’m burning my money like a motherfucker keeping up with this pot addiction. (Seriously. I’m spending way too much on weed. The next time one of you sees me in person, kick me in the fuckin’ nuts, would ya’?)  Combine this all with the fact that I have a history of existential crises and the fact that Umbrella Academy S2 came out and, while it was great, it’s also probably not a safe show for me if I’m not in the right state of mind. Klaus is insanely cool to me, I’d really like to be him, and the

***(UMBRELLA ACADEMY SEASON 2 SPOILER BELOW)***

spoiler line spoiler line spoiler line

scene where Vanya is dosed with acid while Butthole Surfers plays and then oh no suddenly all this dark shit is cool to me again But! I’m getting sidetracked, which leads me to my next point, and take this one with a grain of salt (this is all just an anecdote at how unhealthy I am right now because I haven’t really come to terms with it yet. I almost deleted that, i’m in a bit of denial) : I’m pretty sure I’ve experienced acute psychosis due to the combination of the aforementioned factors. And when I say acute, I mean it in the medical terminology. Nothing chronic by a long shot-- but hear me out here. I’ve been noticing the past week or so some...change in my life. I can’t quite pinpoint it, but I did recently look up psychosis and it’s symptoms, so let’s go through them and give an example or two of something I’ve done to mimic that.

*Signs and Symptoms of Psyschosis*

**1. Hallucinations** : A fairly easy one. A night where I was particularly sleep deprived (probably the longest in a while, 2.5-3 days without sleep) I remembered hearing auditory hallucinations that manifested by the alarm that blares in the Fire Station whenever we get a call. Now, it was nothing long, but I definitely heard the little start and click and ring of the alarm a couple times that night. The weird thing is how those...work. I’ve been trying for the past two minutes or so how to describe hearing it, but I can’t. It’s like.. I thought it was real, but at the same time, I didn’t. It was gone as soon as it came, but I stayed in that mental spot for much longer. **2. Delusions** : this is the one keeping me sane. i haven’t had anything delusional...or so i think, lmfao **3. Disorganization: “Disorganization is split into disorganized speech or thinking, and grossly disorganized motor behavior. Characteristics of disorganized speech include rapidly switching topics, called derailment or loose association; switching to topics that are unrelated, called tangential thinking; incomprehensible speech, called word salad or incoherence. Disorganized motor behavior includes repetitive, odd, or sometimes purposeless movement.”

This is the one I am closest to: Over the past few nights at work, I have acted like a fucking crackhead-- constantly jibbering and yammering and switching topics on the fly based on whatever pops into my head (disorganized speech / tangential thinking). As for incoherence, not so much, although I have gone outside and just yelled / screamed because I feel the urge to occasionally. Disorganized movement is also a bingo-- I’m always moving some part of my body or just doing some random gesture/movement because why not? However, to be fair to this entire section, it could all just be my ADHD flaring up with the sleep deprivation. Negative symptoms: Negative symptoms include reduced emotional expression, decreased motivation, and reduced spontaneous speech. Afflicted individuals lack interest and spontaneity, and have the inability to feel pleasure.

I don’t strike all of these, namely the lack of spontaneity and ability to feel pleasure. As of late, i have been nothing BUT spontaneous and for some really strange reason I have been thrust into a really good mood throughout the day the past two days or so. It’s odd, because nothing sets it off. I’ll just all of the sudden just be fucking vibing SUPER hard. That’s the best way I can describe it. Two possible causes of acute psychosis can be severe sleep deprivation and psychoactive drugs. bwahaha AND before you think this is edgy beyond belief the psychosis bit is, like I said, just a little joke I’m playing on myself so maybe once I write and get all of this out for once I’ll finally realize how unhealthy and irresponsible I’m being and rectify some issues before i actually go insane lol kthxbye edit: Oh man i forgot another bit. I have almost lost all concept of time, but that is almost 100% because I am now awake throughout the day change and often sleep and wake up when it’s the same day. Real fucky, I could not tell you anything about dates or days or even weeks

[flarebossmalva]

notes for my friend for hire mix is she promised to the night

#abuse #death m

this won’t make a lot of sense if you haven’t read friend for hire. even if you have, i wrote that story back in ‘13 and made the playlist at around the same time and it’s ‘18 now and i don’t exactly remember what was going through my head when i put this together, so this might be a less enlightening mix notes post. regardless, here we go.

only happy when it rains / garbage

one of the things i figured out very early on about jack is that she’s pretentious and melodramatic and on some level enjoys having something to complain about. after all, what kind of fifteen-year-old runs an overly verbose vent blog filled entirely with lengthy personal posts about some girl her parents are paying her to befriend? well, probably someone who likes to wallow in it a bit. friend for hire is, i guess, something of a tragedy, but it’s also being told by a character who has a tendency to revel in being sad.

seventeen / marina and the diamonds

growing pains. teenage angst. more establishing material for who jack is. 

about a girl / nirvana

this is definitely a song jack likes — i’m pretty sure i alluded to her fondness for 90s grunge at least once. nirvana songs are hard to analyze because kurt cobain was the sort of lyricist who mostly didn’t give a fuck about what his lyrics actually meant; regardless, the way i read this song is that it’s about being too hung up on someone who isn’t that level of hung up on you, who has a life outside of you. an unbalanced relationship, broadly speaking, which is what jack and luna’s thing was from the get-go because of the money jack pockets for it and the three-year age gap between the two.

crushcrushcrush / paramore

i think i put this on there more for the mood than for any specific lyric. this is a story about angsty teenagers. it definitely calls for some paramore. 

down today / jonathan coulton

this dude can write a passive-aggressive song like no one’s business. i mean, if you haven’t heard this song, it’s about how someone (maybe an ex, from context) is attempting to go off on you but you don’t even give a shit because you’re having a good time with a nice girl now. also: did jack make friends with luna to spite her mom? one hundred percent yes she did.

summersong / the decemberists

song about taking it easy because it’s summertime and summer comes and goes quickly. the main events of this story happen over the course of one summer — that’s about a three-month time frame. that’s quick. but a lot can happen in a single season, especially if you’re young.

summertime / my chemical romance

abandoning the rest of the world to run away with someone. this song is off mcr’s concept album set in a dystopia, so relating it to a much more mundane occurrence (two adolescents becoming friends) helped set the overdramatic us-vs-them teenager mentality mood i wanted the story to have.

born to die / lana del rey

more moody shit, plus the line “you like your girls insane” for a little nod at the mental illness themes i was working with. and a little mild suicidal ideation, why not?

kimberly / patti smith

i don’t know what the fuck patti smith is on about half the time, i’ll confess, but i love the imagery in this song; it’s weird and surreal and grand and apocalyptic and ends with the narrator gazing “into your starry eyes, baby” for the rest of the song. more “the two of us against the rest of the world” / “all we have is each other” kind of stuff, in context.

4 o’clock / emilie autumn

so we’ve mostly been from jack’s perspective in this playlist till now, but here’s a bit of luna. she’s an insomniac, and when she does sleep, she sleepwalks. for a girl named after the moon, she’s learning to dread the night pretty well. i confess that this bit of luna’s character is also based off of my first depressive episode in part because i kept myself awake at night until sunrise because paranoia made me fear the dark. 

asleep / emilie autumn

luna again, big surprise. pretty self-explanatory. wanting to sleep but it sounds an awful lot like wanting to be dead at times, too. 

is she weird / pixies

yes, she is weird. this is where i got the title of the mix from. 

monster / paramore

again, us vs. rest of the world stuff. drowning imagery in this one too. i don’t remember my writing process for this story too well but i’m pretty sure the foreshadowing was far from subtle.

girls! girls! girls! / emilie autumn

i think i referred to this song explicitly in the story. this is victorian notions of female madness / hysteria stuff, which is a theme i hope i explored at least a little because it was a big influence while writing this thing. iirc i had jack reference this song which is sort of getting at jack’s gender issues i guess, not seeing herself as a girl and all that.

fear of dying / jack off jill

i love foreshadowing apparently. also sort of a “i don’t want to die and leave you behind (but if we died together it’d be alright)” thing here.

northern star / hole

more night imagery. also a really moody track, sort of apocalyptic-sounding. it’s hole so i’ll be damned if i know what the lyrics are supposed to mean but the tone fits. i think i had this one associated in my mind with a specific scene i wrote where luna shows up at jack’s house unexpectedly.

how strange / emilie autumn

don’t remember which of my main characters i associated this one with but i wanted to get some early emilie autumn in there and this song is basically a passive-aggressive “you don’t know me like that” track. also the chorus talks about dreams which naturally were an important part of this story.

if you feel better / emilie autumn

abuse victim anthem am i right. the lyrics for this one are basically like “you can blame everything on me and treat me like i’m just a heartless person taking advantage of you if it helps you to do that because i’m past fighting you on it” and, again, you can definitely read it as passive-aggressive but i’m not sure you have to either because this is 100% the mentality abuse victims commonly adopt during their abuse. could work for jack and luna or for jack and her mom. 

the killing type / amanda palmer

the narrator of this song constantly asserts a nonviolent, pacifistic nature but is clearly willing, if not eager, to resort to violence to fix a broken relationship. if that ain’t a mood, i guess. i think this is more of a luna track, except she’s like twelve and ends up directing violence at herself instead of towards anyone else.

i want my innocence back / emilie autumn

given the ages of my protagonists, loss of innocence is in the thematic mix, and i think luna in particular (who is just moving out of childhood into adolescence) wants to go back to how she was before losing some vestige of innocence... another violent song too, but not angry, the violence here is matter-of-fact. a means to an end. luna’s basically dealing with the onset of mental illness symptoms (i never decided what she might have, but definitely some measure of psychosis) and doesn’t know what’s happening but wishes things could return to “normal” for her.

time for tea / emilie autumn

my main reason for including this track, i think, was because luna would like it. it’s about girls exacting bloody revenge, what’s not to love?

eloise / the damned

given jack’s overall musical taste (which i don’t think i discussed too much in canon, but i alluded to it more than once), i’m sure she’d like this song. the angst makes it fit. also like... doing everything you can think of to keep someone happy and then losing them anyway.

liar / emilie autumn

god i really put a lot of emilie autumn on this one huh. this is another track that could work for jack’s relationship with her mom (i think when i had her review opheliac in a blog post, she mentioned liking this song; that’s why), but it’s more relevant to jack and luna’s relationship ultimately, especially once luna finds out jack’s been getting paid to befriend her.

when i am queen / jack off jill

extremely a luna track, the chorus is even about suicide by drowning for fuck’s sake. not sure there’s much more to say, the relation of this one to the story is probably very obvious.

shallot / emilie autumn

very pretty song about being imprisoned and escaping it in order to die free, or something. also a lot of water/night imagery. very luna.

where is my mind? / pixies

water imagery again, also losing your mind or realizing you never had one to begin with. most applicable to luna but jack is probably the one who likes this track.

come away to the water / maroon 5 ft. rozzi crane

the title is probably enough explanation but this is about children being taken to be slaughtered, so. there’s that.

4 o’clock reprise / emilie autumn

if friend for hire was a movie i’d want this to play the night luna drowns. that’s all i gotta say on that.

redondo beach / patti smith

this song is about a woman who has a fight with her girlfriend and then goes looking for her; along the way she sees a commotion on the beach, where a girl has just washed up dead, but ignores it to keep search for her gf, not realizing till the end of the song who the dead girl on the beach is. obviously i picked it because it’s about someone drowning herself following a fight with a loved one.

dear prudence / siouxsie and the banshees

the narrator of this song implores the titular prudence to come outside and play, but i’ve always thought prudence sounded... well, dead, the way the narrator keeps imploring her to open her eyes. i’m not sure if that’s like a “valid interpretation” of the track but in my mind prudence is absolutely not alive. at this point in the story neither is luna, so.

if i burn / emilie autumn

friend for hire concluded with jack realizing that even though luna’s dead, she’s never going to be rid of her. this track is about someone asserting that even if she dies, her killer will never be rid of her memory and will be haunted by her forever.

[oneandonlykysra]

Autobiographical:  It’s Like This

This was written about a year ago and is a pretty accurate account of my struggle with infertility and the end of it.  I’m posting this now because - due to a recent stint with cancer my doctors all agree I should not try for a second baby which was the plan for April before I found out about the cancer.

It’s Like This

by Kysra

Here’s how it is:

Ammonia cooling on fingers shaking in the lamplight.  A clear Solo cup on the vanity, half-full and leaking (Need to get the disinfectant and clean that) with a stick – a lackluster reminder of coffee spoons I’ve had to give up – rising from the foam.

I should have brought a book, the porcelain warming beneath my lower cheeks even as the decision is made to get my feet and flush the nothing in the bowl and wash my tainted hands. The rest of a small eternity is spent half-pacing forth and frantically looking for something to do, willfully forgetting the empty sink, folded laundry, and dusted furniture.  

The book shelf is full but the contents have been read at least once.  The waiting is the hardest part (After all, what is two years of trying?).

Trying to be nonchalant is more difficult.   I barely know the date anymore, don’t really keep track of the days of the week or months of the year.  My calendar is all about the day of my cycle – Is it a fertile day?  What is my temperature?  Oh, it’s day 12, I should be seeing a spike now.  Why is my mucus drying up when it’s day 9?  Maybe I should start doing the ovulation kits today . . .

There are highs of course – the build up to getting that phone call, “You can trigger tomorrow at 8 A.M. and be here the next morning first thing” (like fertility is some sort of gun and synthetic hormones are the bullet); the hellish two week wait where every symptom imaginable is . . . imagined; and finally, today, when all the chemicals, mood swings, barely there self-hatred, public scrutiny and untamable Hope (too important for a mere lowercase) come to a head.

Returning to the bathroom takes some effort.  My breath is ragged from taking the ten steps from the hall.  A glance tells me everything I already knew, the screaming silence of a single line echoed in my heavy sigh.

I get the disinfectant, clean the mess.  The stick is in the garbage first.  I don’t want to see it anymore.

***

There are times I want to stand up, deform my jaw, and scream until my uterus explodes.  

“Do you want to hold her?”  The baby is staring at me with a baleful look that says, ‘I don’t know you. I don’t like you.  I don’t like how mommy’s fingers are digging into my pits either.”

I shake my head and make some excuse about not holding kids under a year old.  (It’s true but not the truth.)  

Social gatherings are almost as hellish as the two week wait only somewhat shorter and somewhat missing the desperate itching of anticipation that WILL.NOT.DIE.  I weather them with a staid sort of semi-calm that just barely masks the sinking isolation that I actually feel.

Because, seriously, when you’re going through a fertility journey alone (and make no mistake, even partnered infertile people are alone in their suffering) it seems as if the entire fucking population is in some stage of successful procreation just to spite you.

And in some weird twist of crazy, despite the bellowing green monster behind my eyes, I still like seeing baby bumps and talking mommy-shop and playing peek-a-boo.  If I can’t be a mommy (yet), I guess being ‘doting auntie’ isn’t such a short change.

It doesn’t stop me from crying myself to sleep though.

***

The thing is, after you’ve been molested as a kid, you never think of your body as fully yours.   Infertility reinforces this.   Unexplained infertility twists it into a psychosis.  Because if your body isn’t yours and it’s defective anyway, who the fuck is in charge?   YOU.  So you become a little reckless, a little crazy because this body isn’t yours but you’re the one having to deal with it.

You’re willing to do things most sane people would never entertain.  You take drugs and supplements and drink strange drinks and eat strange food and it doesn’t matter how much money it all costs or how many doctors you see or how many hours of work you miss.  You will allow anyone to touch, poke, prod, and manhandle your lady parts even though you hate being touched in even innocent places and want to kick these people in the face until their eyes are gouged.

And you do it, because this body that isn’t fully yours is telling you it wants to be an incubator for a brand spanking new baby.

And even though you know that spanking new baby and your spanking new incubator body will be touched, poked, prodded, and manhandled even more, perversely, even as you would prefer drinking acid under normal circumstances . . . you want it more than anything on God’s green Earth and you will do the aforementioned things-most-sane-people-would-never-entertain for as long as you can stand it.

***

Driving an hour and a half and missing work time stinks in and of itself, but being escorted to a claustrophobic little office with a huge cherrywood desk (cheerily justaposed as it is to the sickly yellow wall paint) and told, “At your age, with your medical history, and how you’ve responded so far, I have to think something is wrong with you” is just the straw that breaks the weary, beaten down camel’s pack-laden back.

My doctor is a certifiable jackass of the first water.  I don’t trust him a wit and even if I did think he had my best interests at heart, I would still want to bitch slap the smirk off his face.

I attempt to breathe through my nose, a painful weight in my chest, and try to stem the prickling in my eyes, nose, and whine that’s bouncing around between my vocal cords.

Something is wrong with you.  Story of my life.

He goes on talking about my three options (another IUI, IVF or laparoscopy) and I do my best to pay attention through the ringing in my ears.  I can feel the heated wetness of tears brimming at my lower eyelids and my nose is starting to run.  I faintly recognize my voice – stronger than it has any right to be – saying I want to move on to IVF.  

Nevermind that the last two years have cost me more than $30,000 already, I will find a way to finance the procedure even if I have to sell (excuse me, I mean donate) my precious eggs.  Who cares if it will absolutely kill me if they work for some stranger and I never reap the benefits of my own gametes, at least I’ll be able to give myself that good old college try.

He leaves to find the financing information and I let the tears come.   It’s not hard wracking sobs.  It’s not a steady drip.  It’s not a satisfying cry.  

It’s a weak, shuddering cry that cools my red cheeks and staggers my breath and drains my energy. I feel frail sitting here in this room with its pomp and polish.  I’ve never felt so lonely and in need of a simple hug.  

But there’s no one around (despite wishing for a nurse) and I probably wouldn’t accept a hug anyway. It would be like an agreement on my colossal failure.

Something is wrong with you.

I end up crying all the way back to work, through the day, on the way home, and into a bottle of tequila until I fall asleep on my bedroom floor.

When I wake, I feel scummy and dirty and to-my-toes sad.

My three options are in the back of my mind.  The doctor told me to let him know what I decide as soon as my period comes; and wouldn’t you just know it – “The Red Flood begins,” even my voice sounds weighted and empty as I look down at my soiled underwear. . . like Eeyore on estrogen.

After work, I pass my house and find myself at the park.  The green grass and canopied trees are brimming – ironically – with life, but I bypass them to walk all the way to the back where I can see cars pass but they can’t see me.  

I lower myself slowly to a swing, grasp the suspension chains and begin to rock.  The rocking becomes a creak-pull, the creak-pull smooths out to a soft aerial glide.

The sobs are not unexpected nor is the conversation-like prayer that breaks from my lips.  I want God to know how angry I am, how sorry I am, how hopeful and trusting and thankful I am.  I want him to know I’ll accept whatever outcome I’m given but how I will never understand how he could give me this imperative for motherhood yet not allow me to conceive.

“I guess that’s something I’ll just have to live with, right?”

Something is wrong with you.

That evening I call the doctor to let him know I choose the laparoscopy.

***

Missing a cycle hurts but (a grudging but) it was most likely necessary to my sanity.  I feel a renewed sense of positive anticipation and it shows in the smile on my face and the spring in my step.

I’m not even snarky with the doctor as he pulls the bandages off my “bullet holes” and he goes over the surgical report.  

Endometriosis . . . weeds in my garden.  Burned out but bound to regrow.  Time is of the essence.  “You will never be more fertile than you are right now.”

So how do we proceed? “You can do another Clomid cycle or a monitored cycle with injectibles . . . “

“I want to do IVF.”

“Well, then you just wasted a surgery.”

“I want to do IVF.”

“IVF isn’t going to give you a better chance of conceiving.  I recommend injectibles.”

“I’ll need to think about this . . . “

“Let me know what you decide before your next period.”

In the bathroom at work, I look down at my underwear with something between exasperation, laughter, and horror on my face.   The blood there taunts me.  

“Well, shit.”

***

Ask a woman who’s gone through fertility struggles what drugs she took and they will always fall into three categories:  stimulation, trigger, or arrest; and all of them take your sanity and stomp on it . . . because apparently, being through the emotional ringer every month when you see that negative test isn’t enough.

That being said, I dealt with the daily injections with grace (and the occasional rage-filled mood swing).  I say my prayers morning, noon, and night focusing my inner eye on the space just between my hips and beneath my belly button (where most of the medicine is injected).  I don’t complain about the near daily monitoring visits or the amount of time I have to make up at work.  And I never tell anyone I have decided to quit after this cycle.

I’m tired, and more than that, I’m stressed to the point of nightly body tremors and hair falling out. If I don’t quit, I might just give myself a heart attack.

Monitoring only makes my feelings of failure and inadequacy worse.  All it takes is the transvaginal ultrasound to make the air in my lungs thin out and my stomach drop.  My follicles – despite the stim drugs  - are not growing.

The nurse doesn’t seem overly concerned, but after every visit, I go to work with the knowledge beating down the crown of my head that it isn’t happening this month either.

And then it happens . . . Day 11.  The wand is prepped and inserted.  I crane my head back to see the blown up screen.  And there it is:  Big Bertha.  

The follicle takes up the entire screen  - a morbidly obese cell at once Frankenstein-ish and terrifically beautiful.  I have an insane urge to shriek, “It’s ALIVE!!!” but settle for tittering impotently.  Nonplussed, the technician says, “Oh yeah, that one’s ready . . . 18 millimeters.  You’ll probably trigger tonight.”

My jaw is still dragging on the floor.  Yesterday, that thing was only a tiny speck of light on a gray board and now it was Follizilla.

Another day comes and I pack my trigger shot with all the care of a desperate woman at the mercy of her ovaries.  I cannot take it till 8 A.M. and tomorrow I will lay on the table one more time, open my legs for a stranger in a lab coat one more time, and submit to the rigors of the dreaded two week wait.  ONE. MORE.  TIME.

I am almost giddy at the idea of – what will most likely be – freedom from fertility-related insanity.  So giddy, I book a trip to Cedar Point Amusement Park because after two and a half years of frequent doctor visits, blood draws, fertility drugs, acupuncture, teas, supplements, injections, ultrasounds, fertility yoga, inseminations, and negative pregnancy tests (not to mention painful HSGs, laparoscopies, and hormone-induced mood swings), I was ready to get on a few roller coasters and scream my grief to the world without worrying about being committed.

The trigger shot is injected.  The work day is done.  I have trouble sleeping, think maybe I’m not ready to let it go just yet.

I ask God silently for guidance, for peace; and that night I dream of a baby in a gray jumpsuit and dancing with Batman.

Maybe I need to be committed after all.

***

It is the stupidest, most crazy thing ever but as I walk into the doctor’s office and say hello to the receptionist, “You should go get some breakfast down the street.  It’ll be about a half hour before they’re ready for you,”  I realize I chose this blouse and these shoes and this hair style and put on make up because I feel sexy and –WORSE- randy.

Grinding my teeth, I go down the street and have a light breakfast then make my way back to the office and promptly lock myself in the bathroom.  

After two and a half years of charting my cycles, I am an old pro at feeling myself up for cervical mucus and for the first time ever, I have buckets of the stuff.  My underwear is soaked.   It’s mystifying but also exciting (in more ways than one!); and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

Failing any other ideas, I clean up as best I can, wash my hands three times, and step into the waiting room.  I have a book in my bag (along with an mp3 player with a new “insemination mix” and a few snacks, some water) but I can’t concentrate for all the involuntary rubbing of the thighs.

I am about to go absolutely batshit (in the most self-loving way) when my name is called.

The nurse is one I’ve never met before but I like her instantly.  She has long blonde hair in braids and reminds me of my mother. “We’ll take good care of you,” she says, and – for once – I believe her.

The doctor is also one I’ve never met before – an old lady with graying frizzed out hair and square-frame glasses.  She’s looking over my chart when she enters and looks me in the eye while shaking my hand. I am completely in love with her in an instant because after so many inseminations performed by so many doctors (never the same one twice), I finally feel safe.  She feels like a grand-mother.

It is done and over with in a seeming instant . . . I’m actually surprised because there was no pain, no discomfort, no violation and ask if maybe she forgot to do something.  She laughs and says she wishes me luck and just as she’s leaving, I remember to ask, “Can I have some progesterone suppositories, please?  I always have low progesterone . . . and this is my last shot.”

My main doctor – the one I want to slap – wouldn’t be happy with me right now; but I never did buy that the suppositories “wouldn’t fix my problem”.

Papers are ruffled as she looks through my lab reports, “I’ll get you some samples . . . Honestly, I don’t know why they haven’t given you this before.”

I want to scream, crow, beat my chest and poke Dr. Jerk in the shoulder and say, “BOO-YAH!!” Instead I say a quiet thank you and wait alone for the nurse to bring the samples.

As I move to get dressed, I can’t help but think, “Man, I hope I don’t leave a huge ass puddle on this table.”

***

It starts here:

Barely there, shuffling feet against carpet, heat radiating off skin like an invisible sunburn.  I haven’t seen or spoken to my family in a week (even though I live with them) because I wake up, eat, leave, work, get home before everyone, take a shower, cook a quick dinner (steak- rare- and macaroni and cheese), and then go to bed before 6 P.M.

Progesterone  - apparently – is a hard task master; and yet, I’m sort of relieved.  Being so tired means I can’t really think about the two week wait and all that entails.

I loyally take my temperature when I wake (yet another thing I will be SO happy to never worry about again) at around my 4 A.M. bathroom break, and a negative pregnancy test on day 20 revealed that the trigger shot medicine was out of my system.

All in all, I feel like I’m going through the motions rather than expecting anything to change.  Even when my temperature fails to begin falling around day 24 like it usually does, I know it’s most likely the progesterone. Nothing to do cartwheels over.

On day 25, I go to work (so tired I am caught dozing off in front of a spreadsheet that once had figures and now has a running commentary of ‘RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”) and feel a stitch in my back that feels something like, “Damn cramps.”

I shift and stand and bend and stretch but the pain gets worse till I imagine a storm cloud rolling into my belly, all black and gray and shot with lightning.  I laugh a little at the visual even as I wince and try not to be disappointed.

Carol offers me some pain relievers but I refuse – there’s still a small, itsy-bitsy, microscopic chance and I don’t want to screw it up with chemicals.   I’ve come this far, I can bear the pain, thanks.

I’m bone tired when I get home but manage to see my mother before heading off to bed, the sunlight still filtering through my window.  

“I’ve been worried about you,” she says, “You should call the doctor.”  I tell her it’s just the progesterone and soon I’ll be off of it, don’t worry so much.

I sleep hard that night.  Dreamless and restful, interrupted only once at 4-ish A.M. with a full bladder and the bleary knowledge that – oh yeah, still have to take my temperature.  I get up when the stick beeps, carry it into the bathroom, don’t bother to turn the light on (I know where the toilet is well enough).

Sighing as I feel the cool porcelain, I vaguely remember to hold the nearby cup under the stream before my bladder erupts.  I don’t care that I get some on my hand, care even less that a little bit runs down the side to create a urine ring on the vanity.  

These things can be washed. The months of disappointment can’t.

I do this every night and always forgo testing after convincing myself it’s too early.  I’m testing tonight just to give myself closure. The blood hasn’t come yet, but the pain of the day promises a negative.

Squinting as hard as I can to see the numbers spelling out my temperature,  I add two degrees for every hour until I usually get up.  It takes a moment but I suddenly realize how high that number is.

My brain wakes up and my heart trips.  

No.  No.  It has to be a mistake.  I’m calculating wrong and I’m too tired to get my hopes up.  Resolved, I finish my business, wash my hands, dip the test applicator into the cup, cap it and set it aside.  

Going back to bed is hard, a not-to-be-ignored what if? whispering softly against my doubts.  Sleep doesn’t come, despite that ever-present progesterone induced exhaustion, and I get up to look at the damn test and put this whole wasted chapter of my life behind me.

In the dark, I find the test, see the digital readout spells the result.  

It’s one word.

That’s about all I can make out but it’s enough.  To make sure, I bring the stick close to my face (cursing myopic eyes), but there’s no mistake.

Pregnant.

Squeezing my eyes shut then opening them again . . . the letters do not change nor do their order or meaning.

I put on the light.

Pregnant.

I shuffle into my dark room, don my glasses and return to the light.

Still Pregnant.

My thoughts are jumbled and I can’t decide what to do.  I pace towards the family room – no – and turn to the hall, to my brother’s door – no – I try to lie down – need to move – and I’m up again, pacing and talking to myself – jibberish – and trying to contain the fireworks zooming just beneath my skin wanting to explode from my mouth in a squeal and whoop of joy!

I open my mouth, muscles tight and eyes squeezed shut, and scream silently.  Then I jump up and down like a monkey on a caffeine high.  Yes, yes, yes!!!!

Then, I’m down on my knees, face upturned to the ceiling.  Thank you.  Thank you God.  Thank you.

And my hand finds that place between my hips, just above where the storm was brewing yesterday.  I don’t know you yet, but you need to know  . . . I love you more than anything and I need you to be strong and scrappy and grow because my one soul-deep wish now is to meet you and hold you and care for you.  I know you won’t always be happy, but I will do my best to be the best mommy I can be. I love you so much.

I give a little laugh and whisper, “I think we’ll need to cancel that trip to Cedar Point.”

And here’s how it is:

Infertility sucks. Fertility treatment even moreso; but I would do it again for the pleasure of seeing that Big Fat Positive and seeing the little hatching egg on my fertility chart and watching my waistline grow and change into some alien pod with moving skin and being unable to sit down or stand up from sitting because there’s an entire new person with bones and joints and independent movements nestled somewhere in the vicinity of my lungs (I can’t breathe!)  . . .

I would do it again to feel the elation of hearing that first cry – at once so new and familiar, to hold that weight that my hips know so well in my arms, to introduce myself and child to the crazy learning/bonding experience that is nursing, to change that first diaper, to barely sleep during that first nerve-wracking night,  . . .

And to stare into my child’s face every day and know without a single doubt or regret that it was all worth it.