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?))