It’s now been two weeks since I got the “you’re not pregnant” call from the clinic, and I’ve been vacillating between depression and determination since. I’m still not sleeping, and when I do I have dreams of death and disaster (last night’s involved escaping from a deadly flood) or eggs. Just eggs. All of the poking and prodding that is involved in egg creation and collection dominates my dreams. It’s crazy-making, and not overly helpful.
My poor husband is at his wit’s end. I spend all my time on Dr. Google trying to figure out how I can overcome my bad egg issue–even though I am doing the one and only thing my doctor suggested, which is taking larger doses of CoQ10–and obsessing about everything I eat and/or drink. I’m totally overwhelmed with “advice” and instead of sticking to one plan, am bouncing back and forth among so many different types of advice I am not doing any of them properly (this, I can assure you–I ate three pieces of pizza and drank some wine last night despite trying to go “low carb” and alcohol free). And then I feel huge amounts of guilt after each infraction (what if that ounce of white bread I ate is the kicker? What if that one glass of wine will mean the difference between doom and success in three months?). This morning I cried when he interrupted me while I was putting on my mascara, to tell me he was going to work. Not really an appropriate response, I would argue. My emotional faculties are wonky, which baffles my poor husband to no end. Never mind the fact that tears and fresh mascara don’t mix.
There simply are not enough eye-rolling emojis to compensate for the strange babbling mess I have become inside.
For someone who has functioned fairly well in society, and who arguably has a fairly high-performing position at work, I feel like the saddest, most downtrodden, directionless puppy in the world. Sometime over the past two years my confidence has plummeted and my capacity for self-help and independence has tanked. I need a direction.
Tonight, I’m going to a naturopath that my husband and I saw months ago, before the failed IUI, and before this “journey” turned into the “treadmill of hell.” I’m looking for help. I’m looking for direction. I’m looking for a way out of my own head and a way forward that won’t further erode my sense of self.
We’ll see how that goes.
The Impromptu Doyenne 