Therapy and Breaking

Aaand here we go again. It’s CD1, after yesterday being CD72. Frick. How fitting that the day I must discard my last faint hopes is the same day I finally have my first counseling session. I had to have some kind of luck sometime, right? Because of course we couldn’t hold off just ten more days so I’d be back at the RE on CD3.

I really didn’t begin this post intending to sound so very bitter.

But now it’s only going to get worse. Because I just got done with my appointment.

I was told three weeks ago that I’d be seeing someone to talk to. Nope. I saw the nurse practitioner to talk about medication even though I thought I made it quite clear to the social worker that I was unwilling to be medicated because we’re TTC. Okay, enough italics.

And enough bitterness.

Because I realized, hell, we won’t be affording the next step–letrozole–until March when the car’s paid for (happy dance!!), so bring on the mood stabilizers, my good woman. Anybody else tried Latuda? We’ll see how it goes.

When I got all done and got out to the car, I was all set to burst into tears. But as the first two rolled down my face, it was like a switch flipped. Screw it. So I didn’t get to talk today. So I’m continuing my break until March. So what. Worrying isn’t going to change anything. I never really got that before. But I get it now. And I immediately felt better. So I guess it did some good today after all.

Now to curl up in bed with a sock full of hot beans on my poor cramping girl bits whilst I wish for my blood pressure to go down some.


So Many What Ifs

Have you ever noticed that when you feel like this is it, that you’ve reached the very bottom, the absolute worst that you can feel, that you prove yourself wrong pretty darn quick?

Maybe it’s just me.

I am so unhappy right now. No, ‘unhappy’ doesn’t begin to express what I’m feeling. I feel miserable, hopeless, lost, confused, abandoned, useless, worthless, stupid, ugly, broken, helpless, neglected, alone.

I don’t want to wake up in the morning anymore, because it’s just going to be another day of this life. And every day is a new low, instead of a fresh start.

Sometimes I hate myself for all the mistakes I’ve made or think I’ve made. Sometimes I hate myself for just one. I wonder why I ever came back. Between 19 and 21 I took so many road trips…to meet strangers I knew only from the Internet. I would just pack a bag with a change or two of clothes and my notebook, grab my atlas and leave.

I went to Virginia, Missouri, Iowa, Wisconsin, California, Alberta, and as far as Yellowknife once, for a month.

If I’d stayed any of those places, with any of those people, would I have ended up here, now?

Well, I might be dead. I walked three miles along I-10 an hour from El Paso with a machete in my pants at two in the morning because our car broke down (This was the one trip I didn’t make solo.). Who knows what could have happened instead of my first and only ride in an eighteen wheeler? I could have frozen to death sleeping in my car in North Dakota in the winter. If I hadn’t done that I could have fallen asleep behind the wheel. I could have been killed by the addict in St Louis who turned down the pb&j I offered him when he said he was hungry. I could have been standing in a different place when someone tried to shoot my drug dealer and took out my car window.

I have taken countless senseless risks in my life, and none of them ever caused me permanent damage.

But I finally decide to settle down and get married and raise a family and look where it gets me.

I try so hard to take care of everyone else because I’m so afraid that they’ll desert me that I don’t know how to take care of myself. I’m afraid to put my foot down and admit that I can’t handle any more.

I’m afraid that I want out, and I’m afraid that I don’t want out.

I’m afraid to keep slogging along because I know it will break me one day, and I’m afraid to stop because I might miss the one chance to turn everything around.

I have an appointment with a counselor Tuesday morning. I hope this one’s better than the last one, who actually told me to ‘snap out of it.’ That was two years ago, right after I found out about the other woman. Snap out of it? Really? Thanks, dude, you were a great help in dealing with my grief. Not.

I guess I’ll see how that goes and keep on trucking.

I do feel better now than when I started writing this. Thank you for reading it.