Right now, I am in a pretty decent mental place. I had an appointment with my therapist the another night, during which we discussed my birthday blues and the expiration date I had put on my life. And while I felt like a complete psycho for even having had the thought, and for the complete and utter relief it brought me, she made me feel not insane. "Well," she said, "sometimes I think the notion of suicide is what can keep people going through their darkest times. The knowledge that no matter how bad things get, we can endure them, because we know that if they get bad enough, we have an out, an option. And for many people it serves as a reality check."
We also talked about all of the positive things that I am doing: eating well, exercising, avoiding booze, following the Making Babies plan and how hopeful that has made me feel, my efforts to reach out to others who have walked this road. I am taking control of the things I can control, and apparently, that is a very good thing, and a sign that I am doing really well.
I went into the appointment scared that she'd want to commit me, and left feeling proud and strong, and almost happy.
Yesterday, despite my trepidation, I went to see a psychiatrist on my therapist's recommendation. I was so reluctant - I already have the stigma of infertility and loss, and I didn't want the stigma of "Psych patient" weighing me down too. It turned out to be a great appointment - he thinks my meds are doing their job, despite my down moments. He said "You've been through a lot of really shitty things, and no matter how medicated you are, you wouldn't be human if you didn't feel sad, anxious and depressed sometimes. The point is, your lows aren't as low, and they don't last as long, so you're doing really well." He even said that he wouldn't characterize what I'm dealing with as strictly depression, since it stems from my shitty ass life. Instead, he called it an adjustment disorder and told me that he doesn't think I need to see him again.
I went into that appointment scared of being labeled "crazy," and left feeling saner than I have in months.
Straight from there, I went to my tattoo appointment. I have been wanting this tattoo for so long, to memorialize all that I have lost, my eight unknown, unseen but so deeply loved children. The physical pain (and the four hours in the chair!) was a mere drop in the bucket compared to the pain I felt losing each of them, mourning the lives they never had and the mother I've never gotten a chance to become. I think it's beautiful. This picture doesn't show all of it, since it wraps almost all of the way around my forearm and I am not agile or smart enough to figure out a way to get all of it, but you get the idea:
This tattoo represents the new chapter I am starting in my life. I am trying to strike the balance between being positive and being realistic, trying to keep pessimism at bay. And so I got this tattoo, with all of it's eights, in the hopes that either I will never have another miscarriage, or that I will be strong enough to endure whatever is ahead (even if it is another miscarriage) without falling too far into the darkness.
Hope springs eternal.
And yet, while all of this positivity swirls around me, there is part of me that is afraid. Hubby's SIL is ready to pop out baby #2, and my coworker's belly grows by the day. Other friends are ready to welcome their babies, and it seems that most of the bloggers I read are knocked up as well. I worry that I will disappoint myself, that I will fall into that abyss and lose all hope.
I feel as if I am on the cusp of something. I just don't know yet if it's something good or something bad. And I'm trying to be okay with the unknown.