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.
I made it to the clinic before eight this morning for my 8:15 appointment, and there were already about ten people in the waiting room, which Behavioral Health shares with Family Dentistry.
I filled out my little ‘I’m here’ slip and waited. After a few minutes, the receptionist gave me the forms to fill out. They really don’t give me enough room for all my medications. But I had two giant boxes for ‘number of pregnancies’ and ‘number of miscarriages.’ I suppose I could have made my zeroes bigger.
Now I’m waiting for her to call me back to make copies of my income verification stuff. This could be an adventure, as I work for commission and fill out my own paperwork to get paid. But the nice lady I talked to last week said that was fine.
And of course, she asked for stuff I wasn’t told to bring. But she said it was okay. Waiting again.
I feel like I just blew fifty bucks for a social worker to tell me I’m depressed and anxious and she’d like to see me in counseling.
I have an appointment in four weeks. How am I going to make it that long?
I started out today so hopeful and optimistic, and now I’m just crying in my car in my driveway.
I didn’t start this blog to point out the failings in the everyday workings of the world. I didn’t start it hoping for others to even read it. I didn’t start it trying to change anything but how I feel about my own situation.
I just wanted to write about my struggles, physical, emotional, and social, with infertility. I hoped to better understand why I feel the way I feel, and so improve my quality of life. I wanted to get out some of this garbage I carry around in my head every day, and if someone wanted to encourage me, why, that’d be a bonus. I wanted a real safe place, where I can say anything that comes into my head and follow it through to its logical conclusion (I know my logic is seldom conventional, but it works for me.).
I thought that there couldn’t possibly be a place where I could talk about what hurts and why and not be vituperated. I thought if I dared to presume that people could just be nice to each other I would only be disappointed. I know, I know, that’s my innate negativity talking. I managed in food service for years. It’s hard to watch so many people be jerks every day and not get a little cynical.
BUT. I’m proud to be able to freely admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong. There are many people who are suffering like I am and still capable of offering support. The world is not full of meanness and spite. I am not alone. I have found a safe place.
And that is why all my initial intentions have been thrown out the window. There are good people who have been through bad things, and nobody seems to care, and if I can raise my voice about it, I feel obligated to do so. Because for every one person who says, ‘hey, look at me, it hurts when you do that,’ there are dozens who suffer in silence.
I don’t want to be silent anymore. I want to be someone brave enough to say, ‘hey, you! Stop that! It’s not nice!’
I always laughed at the saying ‘one person can make a difference.’ I was wrong about that, too. If one person makes a difference to one person, then they are two. One person can make all the difference, but I am glad I don’t have to be that first person.
I do feel better since I’ve been writing, but I felt even better when more people started reading. And I feel better still knowing that what I or someone like-minded can say could help at least one person stop and really think about what they’re doing, before it’s too late. More would be better, but one’s a start, right?