a testament to my time in therapy

So I started nursing school for real-real last month.  I knew it wasn't going to be easy, even without the added complications of everything going on with Sid, and the acting out from Spagett, and the stress of walking into a giant unknown as Sid is medically retired from the Navy...

I thought I knew what I was getting into.  And I was wrong.

I barely passed my first exam.  BUT I PASSED.  However, on my first summative skills check-off, I failed.  At first, I felt all right about it: I get the chance to redo, so it's not the end of the world, right?  RIGHT?!  But when I started to talk to one of my old professors about it, I burst into tears.  Right there in the middle of a crowded hallway, dressed in my uniform, I cried like a wiener.  It was the culmination of all that's come before: Sid's cancer, everything.  And it went on and on.  I went to see our nursing retention coordinator and sobbed in her office for probably an hour.

One thing she said that really stuck with me was that there are student nurses who come into her office in a worse state than me, and they don't have nearly as much bullshit going on in their personal lives.  She said that I was holding it together admirably, that she actually didn't even know how I was managing the amount of stress I must be experiencing.  I told her it must be a testament to my time in therapy, and she laughed.

I walked out of her office, not exactly feeling better, but feeling as though I wasn't fighting this uphill battle alone.  School has only been in session for a month, and I'm already blown away by the support I'm receiving from my professors - old and new -  and my fellow students.  It's been amazing and humbling and inspirational.

Nursing school isn't what I expected at all.  In some ways it's a lot better, and in some ways it's a lot worse.  I can't even imagine what next semester will be like, and truthfully, I'm trying not to think about that when there's so much going on right now.

confession

I am struggling.

My first semester of nursing school is coming to a close, and I have straight A's.  That's not the problem.

It's everything else that's the problem.

I think that Spagett has ADHD.

I can't deal with him.  I can't.  I can't mediate between him and Sid any longer.  I feel like I'm losing my mind.  I can't deal with being forced to side with my husband or my child in this bullshit drama that has become our home life.  I can't.

And yet, what choice do I have?

When the time outs have not worked, and neither have the spankings, and Spagett is throwing toys at my head because THAT is his definition of "playing with toys", when you tell him to play quietly and he starts throwing things at the ceiling fan, because hey, it's quiet, isn't it?  When it's mid afternoon and you can see his body is in need of rest and yet he can't lay still long enough to allow himself to nap, when it's midnight and he's still awake because he literally cannot stop running around and we have to be up at 7 am, but if you just lock him in his room and try to go to sleep yourself, he's going to tear everything apart and scream so loud that the whole neighborhood will hear...

What choice do I have?

When Sid has checked out, and all his contributions to the problem involve screaming "shut the fuck up, go away," what fucking choice do I as Spagett's mother HAVE?!

This is not what I wanted for my little boy.  This is not what I wanted for Sid and I as parents.  I feel like somewhere along the way, I have done something wrong, I have made a bad decision, and now every single one of us is paying the price.

So yeah.  Seriously, what do I do?  What choice do I have when I'm the only one left to handle the problem and I've been slogging away at school work for goddamn hours and I still have homework to do, and laundry and dishes, and everyone still needs dinner, and here's my kid who doesn't give a shit how many times you punish him for throwing things and climbing all over the furniture, he's just going to keep right the fuck on doing it, what the FUCK am I supposed to do?

being brave

The Mansons are facing some tough times right now.  Sid has a mass on his voice box, and is about to undergo testing to figure out if it's cancer.  His doctor is also testing him for Multiple Sclerosis, after years of weirdness.

Maybe it's not cancer (but maybe it is).  Maybe it's only benign nodules (but maybe it's not).  Maybe it's not MS (but maybe it is).  We'll have answers soon enough, and I think knowing has got to be so much less scary than this uncertainty.  I can't speak for Sid, but I know I'm going about my daily business feeling like I'm waiting to be hung: the noose is around my neck, and I know the floor is about to drop out from under me, but I don't know when.

Right now, running is what is keeping me sane.  What I've learned while outside sweating and plodding are keeping me from losing myself in anxiety, and until now, I had no idea there was anything at all to learn from putting one foot in front of the other, but that itself is the lesson: all you can do is put one foot in front of the other.  Keep moving, and eventually, it will be over.  It feels like it will last forever, but it ends.  It will end.

Plus, The Zone.  Oh, The Zone.  Fuck a runner's high, The Zone is where it's at.  There's nothing at all but the silence.  Nothing else.  No worries, no doubts, no voice in your head telling you shit you don't want to hear.  Just the rhythm of your breathing and your feet on the pavement.  I call it my brutal meditation, and it is glorious.

Sometimes I have to remind myself, I am doing this.  I am running, I am going to nursing school, I am going to sit in the waiting room while Sid has his surgery and wait to hear what the doctors say.  I am doing it.  I am brave, I am strong, I am doing this.

And it helps.

to the two gay men in Celebration, FL in '96

I'm sorry.

I know it's been 16 years since I saw you holding hands in Celebration, FL, but I have to admit, I think about you two a lot.  Probably a lot more than is considered normal or sane.  It's just that my mom and her boyfriend said a lot of shit about you guys that I'm sure you heard, and you ignored it.  And I laughed at what they were saying, because I was 12, sheltered and ignorant.

You would be justified in thinking that they were bigots raising bigoted children: I would think that, without doubt, if someone heckled me in such a manner while I was out just living my life.  I assure you, those two adults may be bigots (among other things, which I'm not getting into here), but the three kids you saw have grown to be fairly respectable adults.  We're not without our issues, which is another story entirely, but we're definitely not homophobic.  Hell, at least two of us aren't even religious anymore.  These apples, for the most part, fell pretty far from the tree.

I wish I hadn't laughed.  I wish I had known better.  I wish I could go back and shake my mother by her shoulders and demand an explanation; why did she think it was okay to act like that, to teach that kind of blind hate to her children?  But mostly, I wish I could tell you two that I'm sorry.

What happened that day should never have occurred at all.  Ever.  To you two or anyone else.

I'm sorry.

sleep olympics

It's an ongoing contest, the Sleep Olympics. Sid will get home from work at midnight, two AM, and fall asleep on the couch so that Spagett doesn't keep him up. I, however, am stuck in the bedroom with a baby who insists on waking to fuss every hour or so.

By morning, I want to just tear my hair out, scream and cry, and jump out a window. I AM TIRED. I AM SO FUCKING TIRED YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE IT. The other day, I was so exhausted that I was SEEING THINGS. And I am supposed to care for an eight month old teething monster? Sure, I can do it, but not with any modicum of competence.

So in the mornings, Spagett decides he's up for the day at around 7:30, and I try to keep him occupied in the bedroom for as long as possible because I REALLY DON'T WANT TO GO DOWNSTAIRS AND SEE SID ASLEEP ON THE COUCH. It's like a slap in the face. It's jealousy just choking me to death: HE GETS TO SLEEP AND YOU DON'T, HA-FUCKING-HA, BITCH.

Every morning, without fail, Sid wakes when I bring Spagett downstairs, long enough to mumble about how TIRED he is, and then he goes upstairs and sleeps in the bed for another hour or two. Sometimes three. And then in the afternoon, he likes to take another nap before work.

So, it's the Sleep Olympics: he says, "oh, I'm so tired," and I say "oh, really? I was up all night with Spagett." And we apparently feel the need to one-up each other. Now, I'm not really trying to have one over on him, I just want him to ACKNOWLEDGE that I.don't.sleep. I don't nap. I don't get a few baby-free hours to waste in blissful slumber. LIKE CERTAIN PEOPLE...

And I don't even know how it happens, but even on Sid's days off, I'm the only one taking care of Spagett. The other day, he seriously complained about Spagett's diaper, and then left me to change it, wondering why I got angry, because HE WAS DOING SOMETHING ELSE. Well, goddamn it, so was I!

It wears me the hell down. Every day I feel like I come a little closer to my breaking point. Every day my temper gets a little bit shorter, my tongue a little sharper. And I hate it. I hate to see what this is doing to me. Don't get me wrong, I love Spagett, and I know it isn't his fault that he's teething and learning to get around, that he requires so much time and attention. I was ready for that, and I knew it wouldn't be all sunshine and roses. What I wasn't prepared for was Sid's lack of involvement: I was not prepared to raise Spagett like a single mother.

5 am

Spagett's sleeping habits have drastically improved, and now he wakes up every morning at around 5 am. He sleeps for three or four hour stretches (in his bassinet!), but it's inevitable that he'll wake between 4:30 and 6 am. This has become my favorite time of the morning.

On the days that Sid leaves for work early, I have the bed to myself then. Spagett will wake, and I'll change his diaper, feed him, and put him in the bed with me. I will lie there in the semi-darkness and stare at his sleeping face in wonderment: it is so hard to believe, still, that I am looking at my child. I close my eyes, just listen to him breathe, and in those moments there is no one else in all the world but us.

The days that Sid doesn't leave for work until the afternoon, I follow the routine and then put Spagett in the bed between us, and then I can't fall back asleep no matter how tired I am. I feel obligated to drink in those quiet, sleepy moments when father and son are sleeping side by side unawares, mirror images of partly open mouths and outflung limbs.

I have never in my life been a morning person, but I am glad to say that has changed.

I'm going to miss this, believe it or not

Sid took a month off from work after Spagett was born, and looking back, I don't even know why he did it. He spent most of his time playing video games or doing stuff on the computer. He wasn't taking care of the baby. I DID THAT. He wasn't the one sitting up all night with a vomiting infant. I DID THAT. He wasn't the one changing diapers. I DID THAT, unless I specifically told him "YOU change this diaper."

And it's frustrating, because since he didn't spend much time with Spagett during those first weeks, now he wonders why the poor kid will not be comforted by him or take a bottle from him, when I desperately need time away from the baby. He says "oh, Spagett hates me!" and I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that it's HIS fault for not spending more time with Spagett when he was first born. And anyway, babies usually like mom better anyway: they spent nine months inside her, after all, and she is the whole world to them. IT'S UNDERSTANDABLE THEY'D PREFER MOM, is all I'm saying. It doesn't mean they hate dad.

I ran myself ragged that first month, when Spagett was puking all the time, before I figured out he's got a soy sensitivity and cannot tolerate it when I eat large amounts of tomatoes (Yay boobfeeding! You are so convenient, and yet you make my life a misery!). There were a few times when I would get overwhelmed, going whole nights without sleep and having to wipe up vomit AGAIN, that I would break down crying. I admit there were also a few times when I actually yelled at Spagett to JUST STOP CRYING, STOP PUKING, GIVE ME A BREAK FOR FIVE FREAKING MINUTES, and Sid would finally step up and give me a much needed respite when those things happened.

Sid helped, don't get me wrong. He ran errands and did laundry and took care of the house while I spent that first awful month trying to keep our kid fed and clean. He helped with the cooking. He washed dishes. He came to doctor's appointments. He just didn't help all that much with Spagett.

I spend all my time with Spagett. 24-7 with the kid. And I don't mind, but sometimes I just need a freaking break. Sometimes I want to take a long, hot bath. Or take a shit without listening to the baby squalling in the other room. Sometimes I just want to sleep for a few hours without interruption (Spagett is a noisy sleeper, and I wake at every.fucking.sound he makes, but I don't want to move him into his own room because sometimes he pukes in his sleep and I'm afraid that he'll choke to death on it - there have been at least three times where he's choked on his puke and turned colors until I could clear his airway, scary shit). I get so jealous of Sid sometimes, because even though he's going to work and that's a whole other set of bullshit, he's getting a break from the baby.

Nights are the worst. Spagett sleeps for two or three hour stretches until 3 am, and then he wakes every hour after that. Sid sleeps through all of it. There are times where I'm struggling to stay awake for a feeding and Sid is just lying in the bed next to me, snoring away. And I'm always surprised at the ferocious anger that sweeps over me at those moments. Sometimes it is so bad, so unshakable, that after the feeding, I fall asleep and dream that I am yelling at him. Screaming at him until my throat is raw and I'm hoarse.

I know this will pass. And that someday, when Spagett is much older, I will look back on these days when he was so little and cuddly and downright adorable, and actually miss them. So even though all of this is so incredibly frustrating sometimes, I am doing everything I can to try and treasure these days, because they will never come again.

a chapter is closing

We've known for quite a while now that we would be moving, but it still doesn't seem real. Of all people, I should probably understand the fundamental concept as well as anyone - after all, I am the one who packed up my books, sorted out the cabinets, and went through all my clothes. I am the one who started preparing for the move! I should know we're moving! But every time I see a calendar, it hits me like a fist. The movers are coming next week. Holy shit, we are really going to leave this house behind.

Part of me is ready to make the change. This house is old, poorly insulated, and I'm fairly sure that the roof needs replacing. It leaks in the attic during rainstorms, and the toilet clogs on absolutely nothing. The bathroom sink drains at a snail's pace, and stubbornly refuses to change no matter what we do. During the winter, it never gets above 65 degrees in the living room, and that is the warmest room of the house. In the spring, slugs find their way in here from somewhere, and we find dried out slug corpses on the rugs. The cabinet doors don't close all the way, and if they do, they never STAY closed. And did I mention the transient ant colonies that terrorized us for two years straight? Yeah, that was a barrel of laughs. And now the roaming gangs of box elders that have not only taken over our house, but the entire neighborhood? Oh, and I can't forget the big trees that make autumn such a chore: you can't get away with raking once or twice, oh no, you need to be out there every weekend.

In short, this house...can be a huge pain in the ass.

And yet this is the house Sid and I have lived in for almost five years. This is the first place we shared together. This is where we learned to be a couple, after two years of dating long-distance. This is where we laughed and cried and argued and built our life together. I will be sad to leave that part of our history behind.

But at the same time, I remind myself I won't be leaving it behind at all. Because every time I think of all the important moments of our lives in our years here, I will think of this house. When I remember waiting for Sid to come home from work so I could show him the positive pregnancy test in my pocket, I will recall standing on the porch in the late afternoon sunlight of early spring. I can't think of the butterflies in my stomach without remembering how cold the painted boards on that porch were against my bare feet. When I think of the times Sid went out on deployment, or was sent out during emergencies, I can't help but be reminded of how we said our goodbyes in the kitchen, and a room that was normally full of life suddenly felt so bleak and empty after he left.

I think, overall, I am looking forward to the move, because it will signify a new chapter in our lives: in the old house, we needed to learn how to function as a pair, and in the new house, we'll have to learn how to function as a family.

maybe not such a good friend

I've been something of a nonentity online lately. I felt like all I'd be doing when I posted was whine, and bitch, and moan, so I just didn't say anything. There's only so much you can say before you start repeating yourself, right? I felt like a broken record.

Still do.

That friend who was there for me throughout MY EPIC FAIL... well, suddenly she's not seeming like such a great friend. I've mentioned her shenanigans before: now that she's pregnant, it's all she's capable of talking about. And it hurts, oh does it hurt. I told her, I can't even pass the infant department in stores anymore without struggling against tears. So she shows me the crib she's going buy. Seriously, who does that? It's just brutal.

So I'm sitting at my computer, trying to keep it all in because Sid is sitting at his computer right behind me, and she starts sending me a metric shitton of her ultrasound pictures. I downloaded them and put them right in my Recycle Bin, didn't even look at them. She said, "does that look like a girl to you?" and I said I didn't know, rather than tell her I hadn't even given them a glance. She wouldn't have taken the hint anyway.

When she started linking to pictures of the babies born at the hospital she's having her sprog at, saying "they're so ugly, I don't want an ugly baby!" I lost my shit. I told her I had to go and logged off of Yahoo Messenger. For the record, those babies weren't ugly, at least to me. Then again, my expectations throughout this entire clusterfuck have gotten progressively lower and lower: at this point I just want a child to call my own, I don't give a good goddamn what gender it might be, what it looks like, anything like that. It's pathetic and desperate, but she of all people should fucking know what that feels like, considering she's been there her goddamn self.

WHY DO I PUT UP WITH THIS? I keep telling myself that eventually it will be easier, that it cannot possibly hurt this much, and be this difficult, FOREVER. But so far, nothing is getting easier. I still cry every time I talk to her, every damn thing she says cuts right to the quick.

I ranted to Sid about it, and he said he understood, then proceeded to call me a bitch. He was joking, but that showed me that he truly didn't get it at all. As I've said before, sometimes I just want to hear someone close to me tell me I'm NOT crazy, I'm NOT a bitch. I can't talk to anyone about this, only Sid, and even he doesn't get it.

I know this is normal, to feel as though you are the only person in the world who is struggling like this. I know that no matter what I tell myself, or what Sid says, I am not crazy, I am not a bitch, I am not the only woman feeling like she is going to come apart at the fucking seams. But, god, it feels like I am.

because I am a masochist

So, give or take a few weeks, it's been about eight months since Sid and I first started trying for a sprog. EIGHT MONTHS. I realized the other day that a woman I know has gotten pregnant TWICE in the time that Sid and I have been at this. TWICE, I SAY (one blighted ovum that ended in a D&C, and the other she just found out about). And yet for me it's just month after month of failure.

And I know, without doubt, every month when I'm waiting for Miss P, that she's going to show. Because, to use the vernacular, "that's how she do." And yet, every month I get my hopes up and think "maybe this time, THAT'S HOW SHE DON'T!" Yeah, positive thinking changes lives, people. Surely it does. Just not mine. Because I can almost make myself believe it, and then the inevitable happens. And you know what? IT SUCKS.

Sid apologized the other day, and it was funny and heartbreaking all at once. He said, "I'm sorry you have to go through that every month." And I was like "what, the cramps? BITCH, THAT'S NOTHING." Because while I do get the cramps from Hell (I can't even urinate without pain sometimes when it's truly bad), it's nothing compared to the emotional wreckage I'm left with.

And doesn't that sound emo as hell?

Seriously though, emotionally, it's just harder to deal with. I can take a couple Motrin to blunt the physical pain of the cramps. And I can take a long hot bath while I wait for the pills to work. I can't really do that to stop the anger, the sadness, the frustration. There's nothing I have on hand to stop that elastic band that tightens up under my ribs and makes it hard to breathe when I think maybe it's just never going to happen.

I got Miss P this weekend (oh, joy!), and I seriously could not tell you what I did with myself besides piss off Sid. We argued to the point where I just wanted to bust his chops. I wanted to ask him when would enough be enough, when would he finally decide that it's not going to happen to us like it does for other couples? When will he finally throw in the fucking towel and concede defeat? When will it be time to seek outside help? But it's not a discussion I want to have while we're angry. I'm a bitch, but I'm not stupid: Once I'm done fucking around with my menstrual cup, and we've both cooled off (give it a few days on both counts) I'll be ready to initiate that conversation, and I assure you I won't word it like I did here.

I've asked him before, and he said, "yeah, I need to make an appointment for that" and then he never did it. I DON'T WANT TO BE A NAG. I don't want to be the woman who alienates her husband by demanding "GIVE ME A BABY, NOW!" because that shit never turns out well. But for fuck's sake, enough is enough. I want a resolution to this one way or the other.

monsters

The internet friend who stuck by me through the whole EPIC FAIL thing got pregnant five months ago. I mentioned it before. And she pretty much disappeared after that: we didn't talk anymore: not on IM, not on chatboxes, not through email. I felt like she was avoiding me. I for damn sure was trying to avoid her (at least some of the time) because I just couldn't handle the inevitable talk about her pregnancy.

Turns out, I still can't handle it. It's been five months, and she's recently reached out to me and wanted to initiate conversation again, so I'm trying my best to reciprocate. I want to talk to her. I want to have conversations like we used to. But she gets to talking about her pregnancy, just like I thought she would, and it always ends with me just breaking down. Full on sobbing as I type, barely able to read the words on the screen bawling.

Maybe I'm being too hard on myself, but I feel like this is something I should have moved past by now. I think it's pretty stupid of me to be carrying on this way, but then again, I can't help the way I feel. I don't know if she's doing it intentionally or what, but it's pretty fucking unbearable: I've been shielding her from long rants about my situation, so maybe she could lay off bitching about her backaches for a little bit? Christ, you don't see me telling her all about how SHE'S MAKING ME CRY, after all. Complaining about how the baby is kicking and it hurts, telling me all about how her fiance is being so sweet to her.

That's the worst part, actually. Because the other week as I was cleaning the catboxes, I realized that Sid hadn't helped with that since his first shitty semen analysis. He used to scoop the litterboxes "just in case", because of the risk of toxoplasmosis. Usually it was my chore, but he started doing it without my asking. And then as soon as he realized that it probably was just a waste of his time, that there was no use in doing it "just in case" because there was basically no fucking hope of me being pregnant, it became my chore again.

And that just galls me. It was like I wasn't special anymore, that because there was little hope of me making a baby out of his dudely seed, I lost all esteem in his eyes. He didn't have to kiss ass anymore. I mentioned it to him and he got so angry... so angry.

I hate what this is doing to us, what it's turning us into.

"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." - Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

I am THAT woman

The other day, I started researching adoption, foster care programs. And Sid said he didn't want to do it, that he was not ready, not able to take that step. I do not understand: I only want to be a parent, I don't care how that child comes to us. I mentioned it on one of the boards I post at, and another one of the women there also dealing with infertility thought it was a great idea. Her husband agreed, it is a wonderful idea. They are starting the foster-parent training.

I am glad for her, I am so glad that she is finally happy, that her husband shares her feelings. And yet I spent the rest of the day struggling not to cry. I was so frustrated and angry at Sid for foisting this kind of despair on me, for not being willing to consider any of the options available to us, that it was actually very hard for me to be civil. I felt like a bratty child. Still do, actually, but I'm well-behaved today.

To add insult to injury, he went out and bought a $600 lens for his $300 camera. Without telling me. I hit the roof. What the hell were you thinking? My god, when you finally decide that you're ready for a kid, you won't hesitate to drop the cash to make it happen, will you? That money could have bought three rounds of artificial insemination, it could have bought nearly 80 digital pregnancy tests, it could have bought a crib and a changing table! What the fuck were you thinking?! Not.happy. I am tired of waiting, I am tired of having what I want deemed stupid and unnecessary. I am sick of being told to be patient, that I shouldn't be so unhappy, that we're doing it without condoms and it will happen! No, it is not going to happen. I have given up hope of that. I have given up entirely on this whole thing, and right now I would like to see him just fucking castrated.

We started this feeling so hopeful, so sure that everything would work out for us. And looking back, we were so fucking stupid, so naive and full of hubris. We just assumed thateverything would be fine! And when we started to realize that everything was not fine, that everything was, in fact, fucked up and nothing would turn out the way we'd imagined... well, it all fell apart. I'm mad at Sid for being uncooperative and I'm sure he's mad at me for being an obsessive bitch.

I am so unspeakably sick and tired of being jealous of my friends' good fortune. I am tired of being happy for them for only one second before the stab of bitterness and anger takes over. I am fucking tired of being that woman. And yet I don't know how to stop. Trust me, I would dearly like to stop.

I am a contrary bitch

Sid called home this morning, foaming-at-the-mouth angry about a woman who was driving like a bat out of hell with a kid in the backseat. He said, "What if she gets into an accident? Doesn't she care that she's putting her kid in danger?!" and I thought to myself, so it isn't just me. I thought I was insane for getting so angry at shit like that. And I thought Sid would think I was batshit crazy if I told him just how mad it made me.

If I'm crazy, then Sid and I are going crazy together.

He admitted that he got crazy jealous the other day when one of the guys he hangs out with said he wasn't going to have time to do whatever it was they were talking about because he was going out to do something with his son. Sid said, "it kind of made me jealous - he doesn't know what we're going through, of course - but I kind of took it personally. Like, he has no idea, he doesn't know how lucky he is that he has a kid to spend time with."

Yes, it isn't just me.

There were so many times I was really kind of mad at him, because I thought that he didn't understand how it felt to have my friends rag on and on about their pregnancies. How seeing people take their children for granted was like salt in an open wound. Now I'm just sad that he gets to feel it, too, because it sucks. It really, really sucks.

yes, this

Casual Blasphemies has a post today that really resonated with me. One part in particular really hit home, where Jane says:

But I also know that corner of me, that corner of me that I would do absolutely anything to vanquish, to silence, to shut up once and for all ... that corner of me that ... will not/cannot process why I'm not worthy ... that corner that I want so much to STOP CARING because it is CHILDISH TO EXPEND ALL THIS ENERGY ON IT (and write about omg), will be scratching at me...gnawing. Knocking at the door like the fucking Land Shark, determined to remind me at every turn that I am not the girl that gets a happy ending ...

She has fucking nailed it. The more I attempt to process the reality of my situation, that hey, you know, all those heartbroken posts on infertility blogs, they aren't just stories anymore, the more I want to run away from it. And I can't. I may shut those thoughts down for an hour, a day, whatever, but it's always in the back of my head, it's always going to come back. Just going to the grocery store anymore is an exercise in hopelessness: inevitably, I pass a person dragging around three or four kids, and I think, it will never be so easy for me and it fucking hurts. I will pass a person with a child that they are showing nothing but contempt for, and I just feel sick. The simple act of just living my life suddenly yields so much sadness and anger that lately I find I just don't want to bother.

Because, like Jane said above, there is nowhere to go to get away from it, there is nothing that can be done to silence it.

the fail, it is catching

Apparently people think my bad luck at spawning is contagious. The minute my friends find out they're pregnant, suddenly it's like they don't want to talk to me anymore. I have been feeling uncomfortable with this for a while, but tried to blame it on some failure on my part. Maybe I was a bitter wench? Maybe I was being a stupid asshole? But I wasn't. Or at least, I don't think I was. I think a few times, I tried to steer our conversations away from their gestating sprogs and toward a topic everyone could partake of. Like, you know, something not about pregnancy? They seem to be having none of it.

So yeah, at first I thought it was my malfunction. But I'm beginning to suspect that it's not all me. Because they've been making comments that I think are in extremely bad taste: things like we're just so lucky it happened right away, and we didn't have to try for ages and I don't know what I would have done if we found out we couldn't conceive. Like they don't know the trouble Sid and I have had. They might as well just say Oh, that poor unfortunate bitch in the corner over there. What a sad sack of FAIL, and it would have the same effect.

I keep telling myself that I'm overreacting. And sometimes I can make myself believe it. But then it's a huge wake-up call when I realize that if our situations were reversed, I for damn sure would not be making comments like that around them. I FOR-FUCKING-SURE would not be bitching about my terrible pregnancy to a friend that I knew was having spawnage issues. It's rude, for one thing; and for another, it's just a downright douchebaggy thing to do. I never bitched to them about MY EPIC FAIL. I told them about it, but I didn't rag on and on about it, or make every conversation we had about THE FAILAGE. I have a life outside that bullshit - I know reading this blog, it seems like that's not true, but this is where I go to vent. My friends aren't verbal punching bags...this is.

Maybe I just need to stop having friends.

the end

It was our last chance. Our last.fucking.chance for me to get pregnant. And naturally, with what felt like EVERYTHING hanging onto the slim hope that maybe this time will be different, this time was really no different at all. So that's it. Five months, six counting the time before deployment, and nothing at all to show for it.

We've begun to think something is wrong with one or the other of us. Everyone else we know got pregnant right away, and we didn't. It's not rocket science; it shouldn't BE this hard. It's sex, right? It's nature. How can you fuck up something like that? Trust me, the Mansons can. And we did.

Sid's got an appointment for a semen analysis coming up later this week, and if that comes back normal, it's my turn to go to the doctor and start asking questions. And you know what? I'm deathly afraid that something else will be wrong with me, something else besides my thyroid. Something I can't fix with a pill.

I hope that Sid's the one who's messed up - and isn't that fucked up? - because if he's not, that means there's something wrong with ME. I don't want to say the word, I don't want that label...infertile. I don't want either of us to carry that burden, but if someone must, let it be him. Sid said the same thing: "If it has to be either of us, I hope it's me, because if it's you, you'd never forgive yourself." And he's right, I wouldn't.

confession

I'm getting a bit jealous of Knut.

Sid is constantly checking on her, making sure she's okay, and giving her attention. Normally, I'd think it was cute, but for some reason, it's just really, really, aggravating me. Perhaps my memory is skewed, but I don't recall him treating me like that, ever. Not even after MY EPIC FAIL. Matter of fact, if I recall correctly, in the weeks after the failage, he hardly said anything to me at all.

I don't know if this is my malfunction or his. But either way, it really pisses me off.

And then I start thinking, if I were pregnant, would he be so loving and attentive to me then? and would he hover over our baby like that? and it breaks my fucking heart. Lately, I've been feeling like I was over the worst of it, and that I had finally made some semblance of peace with all that bs. It didn't really hurt to look at babies, I didn't want to cry when I saw pregnant women. And it's shit like this that makes me realize that hey, you know, it's not that fucking simple. Bitch, you thought you were through the worst? Now you're jealous and resentful of your fucking CAT, and doesn't that just make you feel like a piece of shit all over again?

a new low

This month is NaBloPoMo, and I was going to participate. That shit lasted about zero seconds. I haven't had the energy, or anything to blog about. I sat around in my pajamas for a week, and bathed only because it warmed me up: what the hell does someone like that have to say, anyway, that warrants a blog post every day for a month? The winter blahs have hit me hard.

I feel like total fucking shit. Right now, my world is pretty colorless. The food I normally like is just...gobs of goo. It doesn't have any taste at all. Yesterday I ate chocolate chip cookies, and it was just like sawdust. Even spaghetti with cheese, the food of the gods, has been reduced to nothing but it's texture. And to be honest, it's texture is pretty gross.

Everything feels so pointless, petty and motherfucking futile. Why should I get out of bed? Why should I eat? Why should I take my vitamin, or my thyroid pills? Why should I get dressed, or do yoga, or ride my bike? Why should I even fucking bother?

Is this what depression feels like? Seasonal Affective Disorder? It's not as crushing as last year. But then again, last year, food was something I still took pleasure in, so I don't know where that leaves me.

The part of me that lives to kick my own ass is insisting I'm being stupid. That I'm little better than a sulking child. That I need to snap the fuck out of it. Because you know, it's supposed to be that easy.

bad luck is still luck

My period, my reliable period, never showed on Halloween like it was supposed to. The last time my periods went funny like this, it was because my thyroid was fucked. Not so this time, so omg, what could it be? Could I really and seriously finally be pregnant? Piss test said no. I waited.

Saturday, the first of November, still no period. I feel just like it's going to start, but where is it? Could I really and seriously finally, even though the piss test said no be pregnant? I dared to hope.

Sunday, today. Third day of the wait. I wake up at the asscrack of dawn with a mess to clean. It seems I am really and seriously not pregnant. It seems no-luck fucks like me don't ever get a break.

I'm angry. At myself, for actually getting my hopes up, and at the world - at good old Mother Nature - for piling one more shitty thing on my shoulders. I'm angry at the women who get oopspregnant, at the women who get pregnant their first try. I'm angry at the crackheads who have babies, when I can't even have one when I stop drinking my morning cup of coffee and the occasional glass of wine.

I guess it goes without saying that I'm hurt, too, for all the same reasons. What makes me so different? Some would say that it's just not god's plan for me. I would say that god can go fuck his fucking self, because his plan for me is SHIT (mmmm, sacrilegious).

What could be the second reason? Anyone? ANYONE? Bueller? Bueller?

There is no reason. I just have terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad luck. And there is nothing I can do about it, except wait. Wait, for three years, five years, whatever, until Sid decides to send me back on this rollercoaster for the THIRD FUCKING TIME. I don't want to do it again. I don't want to give up and wait. But I don't have much of a choice. And I'm so fucking mad at him for it.

I think that's the worst part of it.

I can't get away from it

The universe, god, or fate, whatever you call it, has one fucked up sense of humor. How do I know? Oh, it's easy. You see, right now, I am feeling a just a wee bit fragile: the sight of pregnant women or babies just breaks my heart. I can't bear to be around either right now, and so what happens? Every woman in the tri-county area is dragging around eleventy-three crotch droplets, or is expecting a few. Either way, fun times!

Sid took me out to eat on Monday, and our waitress? Was hugely pregnant. I almost cried. I kept my eyes to the table, or stared out the window, rather than look at her. I just couldn't take it. Petty? Sure. Painful? Hell yes.

Afterward, we did some game shopping, and again, with the pregnant women stalking me. I could have screamed. Did I just not notice this before? Is it just now, because I'm so sensitive to it, that I notice? Or am I being kicked while I'm down? Because that's what the fuck it feels like.

Anyway, the very next day we were expecting to have a quiet day at home. Sid didn't have work, and we were just going to sit around the house and have fun. But his temporary cap shattered, and we had to make an emergency trip to the dentist. While he's in the back getting his gold toof, in walks a couple with a baby. Couldn't have been more than three months old, this little girl, and she was the most beautiful little thing. I couldn't stop staring. And I didn't know that anything could be so hard as sitting in that waiting room and trying to pretend that I was not absolutely shattered.

Every little noise that baby made, my heart would start pounding and I'd feel that weird sense of needing to do something, but not knowing what. The only thing I can compare it to is when you're young, and you start having sex dreams: you wake up all in a sweat, with your heart pounding, and there is such a sense of excited, sad yearning. You wake up feeling as though you have missed something terribly important, something that would have absolutely changed you. You know that you are missing something, but you don't know what it is.

Oh, it doesn't make any sense. I'm not sure that even Sid would understand. He seemed to think it was kind of amusing, when on the way home, I offhandedly mentioned the cute little baby in the waiting room. He asked me "You really want a baby, don't you?" And of course, instead of opening that can of worms, I brushed it off: "No, I just thought she was really cute. I wanted to pinch her fat little arms." I think if he knew the truth, it would wound him terribly, and I don't want that. He always says he wants to make me happy, and in this, he can't just go out and buy something, or take me away for a weekend, or do whatever it is that he thinks I want, because I never ever ask for anything.

But what would be the harm in just once acknowledging it? Just once? I came close at the restaurant. I told him pretty much the same thing that I said in the opening paragraph: "The universe has a sick sense of humor, Sid, because right now, I can't stand the sight of pregnant women, and remember the day my 'period' started? The pregnant woman at the mexican restaurant? And now this server, here? It's fucked up." And he agreed that yes, it was fucked up, and that was as far as the conversation went. What would be the harm in just one time telling him, "Yes, I want a child. I want to make a better family than the ones we came from"? If he's read this blog, then he already knows. And in that case, we're both passive-aggressive shits, because I haven't brought it up, and neither has he.