the rapist strikes again

Hubby and I had our first joint therapy appointment last night. I'm trying to be open to the whole process, but I just don't know if I am a good fit for therapy.

I did feel a real connection to our therapist, Dr. A. She was funny at times, and used profanity in a way that made me smile. She also agrees that my husband's parents are fucked up.

I think that she'll try to convince me to medicate. She thinks I'm depressed, and a shell of a person. I think I laugh a hell of a lot for a depressed shell, but maybe I'd be Tina Fey if I medicated. Honestly, if medical marijuana were legal here I'd rather smoke the occasional joint when feeling down than pop a pill every day and risk turning into a zombie. I really really really really really really don't want to take antidepressants.

Dr. A did note that, despite the rollercoaster to hell we've been on, it is clear that we love each other deeply, and that we're best friends. That was reassuring - to hear from a professional that my fuckedupness hasn't completely ruined our marriage makes me feel like less of a failure.

We'll see how it all turns out. Our next step is in a couple of weeks: we'll have individual sessions, and then another joint session to decide how to proceed.

Anywho, in other news, the two week wait has begun. This is the third to last 2ww for me (for the forseeable future). The thought of not trying anymore scares the shit out of me. I don't really know how to turn off that part of me that is hyperaware of my cycles and fertility signs and possible pregnancy signs. I don't know who I am anymore when not wrapped up in trying to reproduce, and obsessing over what I can put in my body to help me reproduce.

I guess that's what Dr. A meant when she called me a shell.