Quality Over Quantity

You may have noticed that I didn’t post yesterday. You may not have noticed. It’s fine.

You may have noticed that my posts have not been up to snuff lately. I have, and I’m not happy with it.

I posted every day for over two years, but that time is over now. It’s been harder for me to make time to sit down and write a post with my new job and working twice as much as I’m used to working.

I tried using voice-to-text to write some posts on my phone, but my accent’s a little too thick for that, so I spent just as much time editing as I did writing/speaking the post in the first place, which kind of defeats the purpose.

I’m home early from work tonight, due to a lack of business and some schedule-swapping with my arch-nemesis, so I’m letting you know what’s going on around here.

I think a schedule would still be nice to have, even though I’ll post additional stuff whenever and wherever the urge strikes me. So sometimes I may still post every day for weeks at a time, and sometimes it will only be three times a week.

I’m still debating which three days: Monday-Wednesday-Friday? Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday? I’m leaning towards Monday-Wednesday-Friday. And I’d like for those posts to be a minimum of a thousand words.

But we’ll see.

I’m thinking of starting another blog too, which seems counterproductive, but I have things to say that don’t feel like they belong here, so there’s that. I’ll let you know.


Can I Call It a Followup?

Way back before I even started this blog, I had my last visit with an RE on June 24, 2011. That was after my first ovulation, so they gave me three Clomid refills and said come back in September. Then that appointment was rescheduled for December. Then that appointment was cancelled. In February, I got a letter with my new appointment with the new RE. In October. Then guess what! The fertility clinic closed. My new appointment is at the ‘problem clinic.’

So here we are today, almost exactly sixteen months later. Sixteen months of practically self-medicating, two ovulations, one ultrasound and one HSG that I conned out of the OB/GYN who gave me my results from the ultrasound that my family practitioner ordered.

You know what? I should have just cancelled the shit myself. We walked the fuck out after half an hour of arguing with this woman about how one test in three years is not routine maintenance, how despite her insistence that it’s such a fucking great idea I am not going to try to get pregnant anymore, and how PCOS can, in fact, get fucking worse.

All I wanted was some birth control, not crazy ass Provera, with refills so I could bleed once in a while. Fuck it. Guess I’m getting that from family practice.


Coming Back to the World

This is the first ICLW I’ve participated in in a long time. I had so much to deal with, between court (over!), and counselors (over!), and doctor appointments (last one tomorrow!), and lost hope (regained!).

And anger. So much anger. At myself, at the justice system, at the world. 

I closed up shop and sank in on myself. I focused on the wrong things at the wrong times, if there ever was a right time. For much of it, there wasn’t. So much has changed. 

Trying? That’s done, finito, the end! I cannot say enough how much a change that has made in my outlook on life. Everything is brighter, shiny and new. Everything is fantastic. I knew I was miserable, but I didn’t realize just how miserable I was until after we finally made the decision

It feels good to be back to myself. I didn’t know how much I missed me. It feels good to open up again to others, to reach out and be reached out to. It feels good to not be alone. 

So welcome, say hi, stick around, invite me over. I’m happy to visit because I’m happy to be here.


Validation, part one: Growing Up

I didn’t start this intending it to become a novel, but it seems that it’s trying to reach epic lengths, so I’ll split it up for you guys.

Rachel @ eggsinarow had a great post yesterday. And in rereading it this afternoon, I had, well not quite an epiphany, more like a moment of truth with myself.

She talks about feeling guilty to complain, ‘because I’m not realizing that my own pain is real and important, too.’ I so identify with this. And it isn’t that I don’t think my pain is real or important, it’s that I’m afraid it’s not. I’m afraid no one else will take me seriously. Because it feels like everyone’s always been trying to fix me, without trying to understand how I’m broken.

When I was a teenager and living at home, my mom threw me in the hospital because she decided I was depressed and suicidal. I wasn’t suicidal, but I was depressed, although definitely not enough to be institutionalized. I spent over two months there, first inpatient, then outpatient.

When I was ‘better,’ I went back to school. For one day. I had to switch schools because I couldn’t handle how the other kids treated me. They weren’t mean, exactly–except for the one teacher who had told her class that I was in a home. That bitch–just different.

Fortunately, they’d just rezoned the school districts, so it wasn’t a huge deal for me to switch schools, even with it being the last six weeks of the year. Of course, my reputation preceded me. My favorite rumor? I tried to kill my parents with a toothbrush. If you can’t be popular, be infamous. It’s terribly fun.

After I graduated with honors and scholarships, I dropped out of college after only attending one or two sessions of each of my classes. My mother thinks I went for a good two months, but mostly I was just going into New Orleans and driving around every day. I didn’t want to go to college to begin with, anyway.

I was still depressed. I rarely slept. I had acne. I didn’t have any friends because we’d moved across the state the summer after I graduated. I missed my old friends.

So here’s what my mom did. She kept bringing me different antidepressants to try, but none of them worked. She brought me sleeping pills. She ordered me Proactiv. She did all these things on her own, never asking how I felt about it. And I never told her. I took the pills and kept the Proactiv in my bathroom. That was the one that hurt me the most. I mean, I had very minor acne, nothing like this horrific cystic stuff I get now, with PCOS and no BCP.

I got a job at the hospital, working 7 days on and 7 off, which was a great schedule for me. I road tripped almost every 7 off, either back to my friends or across the country. I quit a couple of times, for the big trips to Edmonton and Yellowknife. Then I had enough and moved back here, where I’d gone to high school, where my friends were.

My mother always had to fix things, but she never tried to find out what was wrong in the first place. She wanted to get rid of the weeds, but she only trimmed them, instead of pulling out the roots.