Thursday, April 2, 2015

I can't adult

Today has been a total shit show.

I had a thyroid check 5 weeks ago, after we increased my meds from January. It wasn't cooperating fast enough, so we bumped up the dose of thyroid hormone. I had a recheck yesterday, and it is worse than before. We have to increase my dose again. The theory is that getting my prolactin down, has allowed my estrogen to rise and therefor my thyroid is further out of whack. And fertility drugs can also screw it up.

Needless to say, the whole hormonal cascade of my cycle is 17 flavors of fucked up, shitty ovulation, short luteal phase, freaky barely happening period and on and on and on.

Also, I am tired all the time. I want a nap about two hours after I wake up. My bones ache. My hips hurt no matter how I sit, stand, or lay. My hands ache. My hair is falling out again. I hardly ever feel warm, even laying in bed on flannel sheets next to my space heater of a husband underneath two comforters. Wearing a sweater over my jammies.

I'm pretty sure I'm never going to get knocked up. I don't know how to pick up all the pieces of my heart. I don't know how to let myself hurt this much. I've worked so hard to learn how to have feelings again and now I don't know how to make it stop.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Just stop talking. Really.

I asked my husband to clean the bathroom.  This would have taken me 20-30 minutes, and that is with scrubbing the tub and tiles and taking the shower curtain down and scour the toilet. If I really got into scrubbing the tub tiles, maybe 45 minutes.

Two hours. He has been cleaning for two. motherfucking. hours. TWO MOTHERFUCKING HOURS. I shit you not.

He has pulled a chair into the bathroom because his back and legs were hurting from all the work. My house was built in 1924. The bathroom was not designed to be a spa-like respite from the cruel winter world. No. It's a place with a purpose. You go in, you wash your major crevices. You have a pee. You brush your teeth. You get the fuck out. it's a sink, a tub, and a shitter all in a room that is maybe 6x8. THAT IS IT.

And finally I asked him how long he thought he was going to be because I had to pee. So he made a huge production of taking his chair out of the room ( I cannot EVEN) and sighing. So I sat down, I peed, I stood up. He didn't bother to wipe cleaner off the toilet seat. I sat in whatever cleaner he is using. I have toilet cleaner all over my goddamned ass.

This is his plan, I swear. When I ask him to do one thing he cocks it up so colossally bad that I will never ask him to do it again. I will guarangoddamntee you that the floor will not be mopped, the mirror will not be wiped and the shelves will still have their fur coat of hair spray and dust. He probably won't even wipe his beard hairs off the sink.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Time for more painting.

I am moving my sewing/work room downstairs to what I hoped would be a nursery. We will start painting it this weekend. We aren't giving up. But we are being realistic. I need to do something aside from just housewifing to help with the constant stream of my brain telling me how much I fail. It's too hot up there to sew much in the summer. Mr. Freak Flag has been pushing for this and I have resisted because it felt like I was giving up. But it's not. I can easily repaint if we have a baby.

I may sign up for a few shows to sell, a maker market and a green market.  There are some handmade boutiques around town, too. I could consign. I don't know. It's something. I feel better when I am designing and sewing. I need to have something already going so if/when we call it quits in a year I won't have a complete come-apart.

This last cycle was fucking hell with the fertility drugs and I failed again. It wasn't timing, it's me. I'm going to wait a cycle or two to reap the benefits of the kickstarted cascade of hormones and then back with the meds. I get two more cycles this way and then we have to discuss more or considering IUI. It's super expensive and it would be our very last hope.

 IVF will never be an option unless we won the fucking lottery and used donor eggs and a surrogate.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Throwback Thursday

I took this picture while The Man parked the car after dropping me by the door of my therapist's office. As of yesterday, it has been two years since I started some pretty intense therapy. He had to drive me to that first appointment. He had to shake my therapist's hand because I didn't touch people. Ever. Not even my husband by that time. He had to sit in the room with me for the first few sessions. I loved those shoes because they had little umbrellas on them, like panic disorder was an umbrella keeping me safe from everything in the world that scared me.

He had to drive me for the first few months until I renewed my license.  He had to learn to watch me fuck up and not try to fix it. It was hard. We started seeing a therapist together to help us create new patterns, or as she put it, for me to stop inflicting my OCD on The Man. Which is accurate. I needed to stop treating him like a child and he had to stop taking care of me to such an extent that it was enabling me.

Some things came up that weren't things my behavioral therapist could tackle, they were traumatic and trauma has to be handled more carefully. For vomiting I had to watch that horrific food poisoning scene in Bridesmaids hundreds of times. Watch it until I felt no panic at all, over and over. By the end I could watch them all vomit and shit themselves and eat dinner at the same time.

You can't do that for sexual assault, so it meant a third therapist who does PTSD and trauma work. It meant poking at things and having flashbacks. It meant learning how to pull myself back into the moment when I would begin to dissociate. It meant being vulnerable. It meant feeling pain, a lot of pain. So much pain that I had built my whole life around not feeling it. I won't lie, it fucking sucked. And I am so angry sometimes, so very angry.

Last January, I was discharged from my behavioral therapist and left to staying responsible for my OCD and panic on my own. This month with my other therapist we have started to discuss wrapping up, maybe having her be on call instead of scheduling monthly sessions. Or scheduling them and I can call and say I think I am OK for the moment. Or say that I am not OK for the moment.

We will still be touching base with the marriage therapist on a semi-regular basis as we move forward with trying to build a family. We need the support and feedback, this is so much harder than anything else we have tried to do.

So that's where we are two years later. I don't have the shoes anymore, I don't walk around with an invisible umbrella anymore, either. It means getting messy when life happens.  Sometimes my feelings get hurt. Sometimes they get hurt a lot. And I can say so. And I may even cry. And it's OK.

Friday, March 6, 2015

this week in adulting

I took another round of fertility drugs from Saturday to Wednesday. I have pretty much been bursting into tears at the drop of a hat since Tuesday, full on sobbing. Uncontrollably. Usually til my nose bleeds. And my ovaries occasionally hurt like little burning motherfuckers.

 I filed the taxes that I completed last week.

 I went to therapy with my PTSD/trauma therapist on Tuesday and after about 18 months of hard work we will begin to wrap things up this spring and move forward on a more “on call” basis.

 But I had to call my behavioral therapist for the first time since January 2014, for a check-up. I didn’t want to have to do that. I want to think I am handling all of this just fine. I can take it. But at knit night on Wednesday my hands started bleeding in several places. Because I wash them too much. Because I’m not handling all of this just fine.

Monday, March 2, 2015

Driven to Distraction

So in my last therapy appointment we were discussing this big thing that I am working on. But that while I can influence it in some ways, I cannot completely control it. Which is crazymaking. Because I want to control the hell out of it. But she asked how often I think about it. Duh. Always. Which is not great, because it's putting me back in that old pattern. And it's setting me up for so much disappointment. So I need to learn how to distract myself. Which is different than avoiding, and avoiding is one of my banned behaviors. This is hard for me. It's my nature to well, obsess. So, I am trying to work on distracting. And I have decided to learn how to make amazing croissants as a project. Go big or go home. So far I know how to make shitty lumps that taste like croissants and have the texture of spongy bricks.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

The Cow Catchers Story

I've thought about my Uncle Kenny a lot this week, wishing peace for all my family at this sad time. This morning I remembered a story from when I was 16 or 17.
So, I got off to a rocky start with driving. I had one wreck in a winter storm and then another probably from being a dumbass, they were not major, but still. Needless to say, no one in my house was thrilled about that, and my use of the car was very restricted for a while. I came home from school one day and Kenny had been in the Chicago area on business or something and had stopped by. So he was in the kitchen having coffee with my mom and possibly commiserating over having a teenage driver.
I probably asked why he was there or something, but he said he was there to measure the car. Who knew more about cars and customizing? No one. So I asked why he was measuring it.
He said that he was going to be putting some safety equipment on the car, because the insurance company was going to require it. This is where I started to worry. My mom wasn't saying anything at all. So he explained what he was going to do. To keep their policy, the insurance was going to require that the Pontiac be fitted with....cow catchers. Like the front of a train. To keep me from cracking up any more of the car.
Both of them kept a perfectly straight face. I remember just feeling sick to my stomach and asking what, exactly, cow catchers were. So he explained how they got the cows off the tracks. And because they had to be custom made for the car, he had to make the trip in person. Both of them STILL had perfectly straight faces. At first I knew it had to be a joke. But they didn't crack and had all kinds of reasons for it that sounded legit. I was mortified. He went into detail about how they would look, telling me my mom had already picked the color to go with the silver paint on the car, they said she picked bright orange. There was more but I was freaking out.
I told my mom to just take away my license. That I would just give it up until I was 18. Take me off the insurance. Do whatever we had to do to not put cow catchers on the front of the car. I was begging them for any other possible way to appease the insurance while not ruining my life.
Which is when he cracked and I looked at my mom and knew they were totally kidding. I'd like to say then we all had a god laugh, but I was a teenager and super embarrassed, so I probably rolled my eyes and sulked while they had a good laugh