Sunday, February 6, 2011

a confession

I feel, these days, as if there are two distinct yet intertwined parts of my soul.

There is the part that believes in hope, despite the unlikelihood of it all working out. This is the part of me that follows my Making Babies plan to the letter, the part that drags me out of bed to work out, that convinces me that weekly acupuncture is a worthwhile investment. This part has convinced me that I should give up sugar, caffeine, and alcohol and not look back. I take all of my supplements and meds and drink the prescribed amounts of water and tea; I meditate and do self massage as directed. I have been molded by that belief in hope; I have made major, significant lifestyle changes.

The other part, I confess, is darker. This part haunts me constantly with sadness and grief over all that has been lost, and worry about what horrors of loss may still come. This part gives me anxiety attacks about going to work and dealing with pregnancies and births in any way, shape or form. This part mocks me, tells me hope is useless because things will never ever get better and at most, I can look forward to a lifetime of sadness and misery mitigated by pharmaceuticals.

I shut that dark part up though, for a few days at least, with a realization. It was my birthday morning. I was staring st the ceiling, feeling pretty hopeless, the dark part chiming in and making things seem even worse. I am 33. I was 27 when we started out on this road. So much anguish, so many tears shed.

And it hit me: it doesn't have to be this way forever. It's all under my control. And so, I made a decision: if things are not turned around by my 35th birthday - if I haven't figured out how to live a normal life with or without a baby, if I am still haunted by anxiety and sadness and grief and dependent on Big Pharma just to get through my days, I'll just end it all.

 I gave my life an expiration date.

As soon as I thought it, I knew that it was sick and twisted and crazy, and that I really need to talk to my therapist about it. At the same time, though, I felt as if an immense weight had fallen off of me. I had a surprisingly great birthday, and a pretty darned good long weekend. It was strange to feel so light. The dark part was quiet. I think it got what it wanted.

How fucking crazy am I?

I feel a bit weird sharing this with you all, but I try to be as honest as possible on this blog, so there you have it. I made a suicide pact with myself that set me free. Fucked up, I know.

((And please, please, to my family who reads this, understand that I am not suicidal right now, just desperate to feel normal. I know that I need to talk to my doctor about this, and in fact I have an appointment on Wednesday. OK?))


  1. Glad you have an appointment (*HUGS*) I don't think you're crazy, you're depressed. You've been through a lot, and there's a lot of pain, grief, anger, bitterness, unprocessed emotions with everything. Please take care.

  2. Another Dreamer just said it more eloquently than I can. I pray that you get the baby in your heart, and I am glad you are looking after yourself now and seeking support. The Buddhist perspective is that all suffering stems from craving or aversion; the goal of practice is to learn to live free of either, happily.

  3. I know that everything seems bleak and hopeless right now, to you, and to me too (for my own life) but I can see hope for you, for your future and good things. I don't know whether that means a baby or learning to live and be happy without one, for you or for me, but I hope that in two years from now you won't be in this place anymore. I hope that your doctor can help, and more than that, that you will find joy in life again. HUGS

  4. Oh, honey. I understand the appeal of an end-date to all this striving and wanting and hope and disappointment. I'm glad you're going to talk to your therapist. I'm hoping you can find another version of that deadline for yourself--like, at 35, you'll stop treatment and focus on adoption, or decide at that point to live child-free. I completely understand the desperation and hopelessness, and I know in the midst of all this TTC it can seem like life isn't worth living if we can't have the families we dreamed of. But there many other aspects of life that offer joy and fulfillment, and I hope you can hold onto those, too.

  5. Thanks, ladies, for your kind words. I do find joy in life - quite often - but usually the joyous moments are outweighed by the fear that I'll always feel my heart break around a preggo, even when I'm 80. I just can't deal with that.

  6. I admire your courage for writing this post. Truly. The feelings you have described I've felt, too, but kept them locked away. Sometimes, when you go to the darkest of dark places that you can't even begin to imagine what normal is anymore, well, it seems like that's all that's left.

    In this post too I see hope. Keep talking to your therapist. Keep remembering that you have joy in your life.

  7. Thank you for sharing that dark part. I have had those same feelings but not the courage to put them out there.

  8. So you don't know me at all- I found your blog when I Googled "miscarriage"- but I read the whole thing in the past two days. You cracked me up and made me cry and I'm glad I could read your story.

    I just wanted to let you know I read and you're heard and this whole life cycle/biology thing is a total suck system and it blows and I'm sorry it seems to blow more for us. I hope you can get some help soon.

  9. I hate the dark parts, but honestly I can't say I haven't thought it too. I'm so glad that there are people out there to help us through those times.

    I'm glad you're here, Wifey. Even on the dark days. Love ya!