Prankster, my heart goes out to you. I wish that I could wrap you up in a big hug so that you knew that you were loved. Because you are so loved. You are worth everything. I know that telling you that you need to stop won’t help and will further reinforce all that you do to yourself, so I won’t, but I am reading what you don’t say here, and it breaks my heart. You are worth saving. You can fight your dragon and you can win. Someday you will win.
We will be here waiting to celebrate when you do.
Much, much love,
Aunt Becky
I’m a sucker for it. And I could speculate about all the things that have caused it. My childhood wasn’t great. I’ve dealt with depression and all the shit it brings. I’m impulsive… but I have this feeling, deep down inside, that it’s just the way I’m wired.
The first time it happened I was 14, angry and frustrated and it just made sense. The scissors were right there… and just like that, an addiction was born. I was a cutter. I self-injured.
Of course, 14 year-olds aren’t the most logical thinkers, so I got ‘caught’. We did the whole therapy deal with a crappy counselor and I was expected to stop immediately, so I did.
But I wasn’t stupid. Since the age of 15, I’ve been dealing with an eating disorder. I’ve seen 2 shrinks since the first, and neither know about my eating disorder.
As with all addictions, I’ll never be cured. I never truly stopped, but my parents like to think I did, so I let them. I just got better at hiding it.
While I don’t cut nearly as often as I use to, I picked up a nice little friend, named trichotillomania (self-pulling of hair). It’s so great [sarcasm].
This would be one reason I think it’s instilled in me, I don’t want to give it up. It’s mine, all mine, and I don’t have to share it with anyone, which feels great.
So, maybe the day will come and I’ll be ready to give up the ghost. And if it does, I’ll come back, and I’ll let all of you know.
I was bitten by a tick when I was ten. It’s the only tick bite I remember, though a large number of those with Lyme don’t remember a tick bite. There’s no way to know if this bite or another was the culprit. I do remember a rash on my hand the summer I was pregnant, and I now wonder if it was from a tick, but there is no way to know. I always had weird medical things happen as a kid though, so we have wondered if maybe it’s been dormant for many years. Your immune system has an amazing ability to keep things in check (even if you’ve been given a taste of that forbidden formula).
And your immune system is amazingly susceptible to stress, which arrived on my, well, ashy, crumbling doorstep when I was eight months pregnant.
I had Kellen and went into my six week checkup, where they did a pap, which came back abnormal (yeah, my fall pretty much sucked), and gave me a flu shot.
Four days later (and four days after returning to teaching) my face stopped working. I was home nursing Kellen (or trying) and tried to smile at him, at which point I realized I couldn’t move the right side of my mouth. Earlier in the day I had noticed that it felt like I was talking with braces on, like my lips were having to make way for an obstruction on my teeth, despite not having had braces in well over a decade. That morning I drank orange juice that tasted dull as well as had a Starbucks sandwich that made me question their place as a food establishment.
It turned out that my taste buds were not working on the right side. After I finished nursing Kellen I decided to go back to school to finish teaching. I was really scared but didn’t want to deal with it at the moment (because the only two options I could think of were a stroke and brain cancer). As I was driving down the road I lost my ability to blink my right eye. I turned around, and we went to the hospital.
The good news is that it wasn’t a stroke or brain cancer, though the way the doctor told me it was *just* Bell’s Palsy made it seem so benign as though I hadn’t just lost full functionality of one side of my face and now looked like this:
“Are you sure nothing else is wrong?” I asked the ER doc. I just couldn’t fathom that the nerves in my face would stop firing just because they felt like it. The doctor assured me that nearly all cases of Bell’s Palsy are spontaneous and have no other underlying cause than a small virus. (Had I lived in the Northeast, it is likely I would have been tested for Lyme then as Bell’s Palsy is common in Lyme and the first symptom of it moving into your brain, when things get really dicey.) They gave me anti-virals and steroids. (It was because of this I stopped breastfeeding.)
Dan and I decided to head down to San Diego. I had taken a leave of absence from work because I was overwhelmed. The stress of the fire and the rebuild was compounded by this new development, and I knew that I was spread too thin. It has always been hard for me to walk away, and while it was sad, I am proud of my ability to say, “I can’t.” We left the day after Thanksgiving, a trip that was nearly thwarted by an incredible and overwhelming sense of anxiety. I couldn’t sit down at all because I felt so antsy and uncomfortable. It was one of the only times I’ve ever had the urge to scrub a floor. It’s unknown if this was a natural progression of the Lyme or because I had been prescribed Zoloft to deal with the PTSD. It’s been posited that SSRIs may actually exacerbate Lyme symptoms in some people (many also find them helpful).
That was also the day that the dizziness set in, and it’s kept a firm hold on me for over a year. I spent the entire trip in San Diego sleeping. When I wasn’t, I was scared. I truly thought I was going to die but was afraid of going to the ER because I didn’t want them to think I was crazy. I wish I had gone while in California.
I made a deal with myself that I would make an appointment with my neurologist in January if I was still sick after Christmas. I scheduled an appointment. That week I woke up and felt fine, nearly canceling the appointment to see the doctor. At that point being dizzy was the biggest issue; it was debilitating and frightening. The symptoms came back strongly the day before I went to see the doctor It would be the first of many cycles but also the clue that led another doctor to Lyme disease nine months later.
At first I was diagnosed with Benign Positional Vertigo, which is caused by ear crystals shaking loose. The test for this is tilting your head back to see if it gets worse. It did. But the exercises didn’t work. So an MRI was ordered. While I passed the muscle tests with the neurologist and chiropractor I was seeing, I drop things a lot (more than normal), so I worried a lot about MS, especially because I was told that mid to late 20s was typical for age of onset. With every click on the MRI machine I just hoped that I didn’t have MS and if I did that the test showed it. I didn’t want to be sick, but I also wanted an answer to why I felt so badly.
I’m still seeing the therapist for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but I am also seeing a Crystal therapist as well, every other week. (I can’t even begin to explain this – but if you’re curious – Google Crystal Sessions, Alexander Method, Natural Shock Healing or dark magic…er, scratch that…that won’t help.)
Unfortunately, there are still days when I can tell it isn’t gone. I’m not sure what I thought, but I think it was something like ”This Shit Will Be Over By Summer, RIGHT?”
Sometimes something as simple as a favorite TV show – (Brothers & Sisters to be exact) can send me into a full-blown anxiety attack – and push the reality of a tragedy back into my life as fast as I had swept it under the rug. And don’t underestimate me, I am pretty damn good as pushing dirt under rugs. Just ask my husband…
::Can I just take a slick city minute to say to the writers of Brothers & Sisters…whoa. I think you got your point across. As I stood on my back patio gasping for air and bawling my eyes out, I realized you people need to find hobbies. Something other than thinking of ways to make innocent, crazy, stressed-out TV addicts freak the hell out. ::steps off my soapbox::
Back to my point.
I am happy to report that there are days that go by where I feel like life is back to normal. There are moments in time where I feel myself forgetting about the fear.
Here recently, I’ve had several people ask what exactly my “bad days” look like? So, I thought I’d take a moment and explain what it feels like to always think the bottom is about to fall out.
Because really, that’s what it boils down to for me. I have days where I can pretend like bad things happen to other people. But, those days creep in, where I can’t help but think that too much time has passed between “bad things happening to me” and I am due.
There really is only one moment of every.single.day (approximatey 7:50 a.m. Nice way to start the day, eh?) that really has be stumped.
I pull into the school parking lot and I feel my heart begin to beat just a tad bit faster…and then my mind starts to race…and then my breaths become faster…and I pretend to be cool as a cucumber (whatever that means) and say goodbye to my son, I kiss him, I hug him and I watch him as he walks through the front doors. Slowly, I pull out of the drop off lane and I pull into a parking spot.
There – every single day, I have a brief panic attack. Without fail.
I am used to it now. Really, I am.
The tears only last about a minute or two. I regroup, adjust my eyeliner and go about my business. Ready to take on the world. It’s not as bad as it used to be. But, the thoughts are still there. I still think,
”Was that the last time I will ever kiss his warm cheek? “
“Was that the last time I ever see him alive?”
“Will someone come into the school today with a gun? Is this the day?”
And then I tell myself that I can’t let this fear control me. I can’t let Satan in my life, in my thoughts & in my heart. I push my fears aside every morning and I stop and thank God that I just watched my happy, healthy son, walk into school on two legs, with some pep in his step. I thank my lucky stars. And I continue my commute.
And even though this still happens every morning, the effect it has on me is shortening. And I know that this isn’t going to define me, control me or even cross my mind in the future. I may never be the same as I was prior to July 19, 2009, and that’s okay. I would dare to say that I am not supposed to be.
But, I can tell you that PTSD may linger with me the rest of my life, but it will not present itself every day. I know that. And that gives me hope.
I don’t think anyone knows the isolation that infertility brings with it unless they’ve lived it. Sure, we have several friends that we share all this with. Or rather, I do. I don’t know that my husband, Brian, has really told anyone what we’re going through. If you know him in real life, you know that he is silent about things that bother him. If you don’t know him, I cannot stress how quiet and private he is. But most of my friends know what we’re going through, and a few of our family members. Most people are unfailingly supportive, even if they don’t understand a bit of what’s going on.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any less lonely, and doesn’t make me feel like less of a freak. Save your breath — rationally I know I’m not a freak. But that doesn’t keep me from feeling that way. And no amount of support from my very fertile friends makes it less lonely. Infertile friends — we are blessed with a few of those, too, though I wish they didn’t have to go through it either — make it even easier.
But when I’m in that exam room, having my lady bits poked and mishandled by the doctor and his ultrasound wand of pain, I am alone. When the Clomid headache sets in and I can’t even think straight, no one else is going to deal with that pain for me. When we schedule our love life, it’s just the two of us. When my cycle abruptly ends with the inevitable period, it’s just me.
That’s isolation.
That’s infertility.
But what really shocks me is the unexpected ways that infertility continually separates us from our family and friends. While it colors how I look at the world, it also colors how people look at me.
Between daycare and lessons, I come into contact with about 11 or 12 families each week. I have at least one doctor’s appointment each month and sometimes more, since I’m always having blood work and such, I need to let the affected parties know that either Brian will be here with the Munchkin Coalition, or that I’ll be late for lessons. None of them get too nosy or pry into my personal life, and all of them offer their support quietly, discreetly, and in a very sincere manner.
Except for one person. Who feels the need to tell me (again and again and again) the three stories she knows about other people suffering through IF, and how easy it was for her to get pregnant with her multiple children, and how she just can’t imagine how horrible it must be. And then, she says it…. “I am SO glad I didn’t have to do any of that! I just got pregnant so easily!” And laughs.
I’m not kidding you. She laughs at the misery of others and her amazing good fortune. One of these days I’m either going to punch her, or tell her what I’m thinking. Which is “Me, too. I’m glad you never had to go through any of this, because you couldn’t take it.” Nothing says “You’re a Freak” like that kind of statement.
My next example is a conversation I had with a family member who has expressed absolutely zero interest in our fertility situation until a recent phone call. Which, I have to say, was lovely and all that, but also really strange after two years of completely ignoring the situation.
It’s hard to catch someone up after two years of constant flux and ordeal. She then said “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk about it or not.” Um…yeah. I have a blog about this, ya’ll. It’s pretty much all I do talk about, it seems. Asking how it’s going makes me feel like you care, like you’re interested, like I’m not alone. The only reason I don’t talk about it 24/7/365 is because I know how that would annoy people.
So instead I wait to be asked, and feel separated from my family.
Finally, a very sweet friend recently made a comment that showed me just how much people must view me through what I’ve come to think of as The Infertility Filter. After all, it doesn’t just color how I see the world, but also how the world sees me.
We were talking about her family, and her new niece. She related an adorable story about her nephews as well. We rarely get to see them, so it was neat to catch up and think of them as little people and not as the babies we last saw. We parted ways and about 10 minutes later my phone beeped. She texted to apologize for her story, because she thought the content might have been inconsiderate and hurtful given our infertile state.
Granted, after I spent the next ten minutes really thinking about it I was able to see how someone could have taken offense or been hurt, given the actual content of the story she shared. If they were seriously sensitive and felt the world revolved around them. I, however, love to hear stories about other people’s kids — I spend 5 days a week caring for other people’s children, right?
Even though I was completely un-offended and hadn’t spared it a second thought until she texted, I appreciated her concern.
But I also had to wonder — who else is censoring what they say because I can’t get pregnant? Are we the topic of conversation when we’re not there? Are we your dinner conversation? How often are we referred to as “Brian and Andrea. They can’t get pregnant.” Or “this couple we know who can’t have a baby”.
I hate being pigeon-holed anyway, but to be ostracized by perfectly well-meaning people is kind of a bummer in and of itself. How many stories are we not hearing because someone is worried about our reaction or our feelings? Sure, it’s thoughtful. But it’s also terribly isolating.
A lot of the time, people with infertility isolate themselves. We really don’t want to make people uncomfortable or uneasy. We don’t want to be seen as abnormal, so we keep our problems hidden away. We don’t put our needs and concerns on the prayer list at church. We don’t ask friends to accompany us to the doctor for moral support (at least not after the first time you turn us down).
We don’t offer information, and we are crushed when you don’t ask. Quietly crushed. It’s so terribly easy to believe that we are all alone in our struggles, especially for couples who don’t know any other infertile couples. The longer we’re infertile, the more it builds up, and the lonelier we become.
That’s one reason I blog. Granted, I started blogging before we were “trying”, and I’ll hopefully still be blogging long after we have children, so it’s not technically an “infertility blog”. And yet it is.
I found that when we really started having trouble getting pregnant a lot of my information, ideas, inspiration, and encouragement came from the blogging world. I learned more from other infertile people than from doctors or journal articles. I want to give back to that. I want to be a source of information and encouragement to other infertiles out there who have just received a diagnosis, or just finished their fifth failed IUI, or who have discovered that Clomid doesn’t get everybody pregnant right off the bat.
So I make it a point to live our story out loud and proud. I won’t act ashamed of my infertility, and I won’t pretend it doesn’t exist to make someone else comfortable. I won’t be silent about something that affects so many people, and I won’t make anyone else feel embarrassed either by their fertility or their ability to pop out kids like it’s easier than breathing.
If you got here through a search, you are not alone. Pull up a seat, pop open a bottle of water (no booze in the infertile zone except CD 1-4), and share your stories. Ask questions.
If I can’t answer, maybe someone else can. Let’s learn from each other, and lift each other up. Need prayer? You got it. Need to gripe about how much this sucks, how cold your doctor’s hands are, or how much you really hate scheduled nookie? Go for it — we’re listening.
You are not alone, you don’t have to be isolated, and you are okay.
If we are all determined to do this right out loud, infertility does not have to separate us from them.
I’ve never talked about it…to anyone but a therapist. And, I have never said anything on my own blog about it. But personally, I think a blog that allows you to declare you are “Not Mommy of the Year” is the place to do it, right?
You see, I allowed my son – my first born & my pride & joy, ride and sometimes even drive a golf cart. That cart – it almost took his life.
I’ll pause here and let that sink in for a moment…
I knowingly allowed my son to operate and ride in a motorized vehicle that was not a) safe b) age appropriate or c) SAFE. What kind of mom does that?
Our children rely on us for many things. But one of the key things they rely on us for is safety. And, if they can’t rely on us, who can they rely on?
What kind of mother looks the other way as grandpa and son drive by (at a speed that is slightly faster than I would prefer for myself) in a golf cart, of all things.
And, this wasn’t your average golf cart. It was as suped up machine, with larger than normal wheels and a tow package. And my son, he isn’t just a normal son. He’s MY son.
I have cried a thousand tears. And made a thousand promises. And worried years of my life away since July 19. I have spent countless hours lying in bed with him, rubbing his hair and praying softly as he slept.
I have prayed for forgiveness. For healing. For peace.
And yet, I still don’t feel like I have paid for my sins.
I can still remember hearing the helicopter circle overhead and thinking – I could have prevented this. Let me be the first to tell you – there is nothing more painful to your heart than to think that you could have prevented your own child’s pain. his bloodshed. his near death.
And you didn’t.
I failed him.
I failed him in my most important duty as a mother. I failed to protect him.
This is the single most prominent factor holding me back from healing. And I know that. And, it is something I continue to work on.
I’m 33 years old. I have issues with PTSD, anxiety and depression. My Conversion Disorder is in remission, and I was a T-7/8 paraplegic for four years.
Anyway.
I’ve had a boyfriend for four years, a personal best for me! We’ve been really trying hard the last year, went to couples counselling and everything. It just didn’t work.
When I moved in, I put all my household stuff in storage, saying if things are good in a year, I’ll get rid of it. He owned the apartment and had all the household stuff one needs.
For four years, we were a We.
It’s done now, mutually, yet I feel so scared. Six days left in the month. I can stay here longer but it hurts, for both of us. Neither of us will start the healing process while living together. I want out.
I want a little place of my own, where I can cry all I need.
Right now, I have nowhere to go, hoping one of the two places I applied to accepts me. I have no household stuff …bed, microwave, broom, dishes, little and big things, I don’t have any of it.
I’m just so fucking scared. No Us, no place of my own, no pot to cook in. I feel almost agoraphobic. Too many possibilities. I just want my own little place that’s warm and safe
