I've been purely miserable. And because I'm ashamed at the depth of my misery and haven't wanted to even think about it, I haven't wanted to blog about it either. At first it was really, really bad because I wasn't even sure why I was so miserable, so I was faced with a triple layer of awfulness; the original misery, the misery over wondering what the hell was wrong with me and the misery of judging myself for the misery in the first place.
So I've been pretty abject.
Did I do anything wonderfully stupendous about the misery? No. I went and bought a video game and literally played it every spare minute of every day so that I could avoid thinking or even being in my own skin.
For two weeks that's all I've done. That's quite astounding when one thinks about that. Well, I did cook and clean, but only what I had to do. I've gotten on line once before and that was a few days ago and I pretty much forced myself to do so.
Now I'm feeling a little better, but only because I have achieved, at last, some clarity about the suffering. The clarity tells me, by the way, that this is only going to get worse. I thought that taking clomid would feel like taking control of the situation, but what it really did was drive home to me that the most vital part of my inherent identity, that of a woman, does not function. Therefore I feel worthless, secondary and sometimes even cursed, though this is coming from some atavistic part of me that is still connecting fertility and God's blessing and all those ancient beliefs.
So there's that. Then there's the incredible, crushing suspense of wondering if the treatment even worked. I can't describe it. It's like being twenty leagues under the sea. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin. It's getting down to the wire and the thought of looking at the test makes me want to throw up.
So there's that. Then there's the deeper and deeper realization of how badly I want to mother. Furthermore, how much I've already mothered. In fact, looking back now, all my relationships with men had at their core some maternal instinct. Hell, I've even related to my father maternally. I have cared for disabled children, infants, Korean children and the elderly. I am the elder sister of three brothers, I was baby sitting at eleven. I am a natural born care taker. If I am not taking care of someone then I don't feel as if I'm putting in my contribution to the human race.
So, combine that with the fact that I am thirty fricken' three years old, married to the right man and stalled. Stalled because my body won't function at it's most basic level. It won't procreate.
But wait, I might be pregnant! Surely that means something.
I'll tell you what that means, that means jack shit. I've thought I might be pregnant for twelve months counting, some of those months very strongly. And every. single. time. I was wrong. I can't even think about what if this time I am. I'm hedging against the greater pain to come.
And oh, it will come. That's the other stone, cold fact I'm facing down. Unless I do get pregnant, nothing gets easier. If this month fails, next month is worse, and the month after that. Three months later and we're looking at artificial insemination. That's me, lying with my feet in stirrups while Keith's sperm is injected into me via catheter. How about the humiliation and failure I'll feel then, huh? Won't that be a fricken' party.
Wow, that's such a bad attitude, says...maybe Irving.
The worst part is that I agree, it is a god awful attitude. That's what I mean when I say I've been miserable about the extent of my misery. What can't I look on the bright side? Why can't I count my blessings? Why can't I just look to the distant future and know that I will have children at the end of the road?
'Cause the road is so god forsaken awful, that's why. And I never guessed at the pain walking down it. I should have had an idea, but I kept putting it off, so I wasn't prepared. And I was stupidly naive. I thought I could go through this and have it not be what my father would call "an identity conversation," another words, not have it impact how I define myself.
Ha, bloody ha.
So either I'm whining on in my blog in gruesome, depressing detail, or I'm sedating myself with electronics. I wish I could end on some kind of uplifting note, but I don't have one myself, so I have nothing to share. I asked God to make sure the suffering made me a better person in the end, and I'm sure that will happen, but I'm no where near the end. Unless I am pregnant.
