I wrote this post earlier today and didn’t post it. Until now I guess I thought that the self I present to the world through this blog is pretty true to who I am “in real life” (this assessment made in response to a question on Niobe’s blog some time ago), but I realized as I hesitated over the “publish post” button that … this really is a social space. It may be my metaphorical living room (and sometimes, sadly, bedroom and bathroom) but if it is, it’s in a glass house, and I don’t really wander around naked. The fact that I know others are reading and commenting shapes how I present myself here (and Thank you, Thank you all for your comments – you have NO IDEA how much less alone it makes me feel. I take that back – you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about. So Thank you).
So, in the interest of transparency – because so many bloggers comment on how much they appreciate hearing honest accounts of other people’s struggles – here’s what I wrote earlier today. It ain’t very pretty, but it’s unedited.
I’m getting in touch with my emotions here… I’m just really angry that we have to deal with this, all of us, all of this. I’m pissed. I just got of the phone with the clinic, it’s fine, we’re going to go for it, but I have to go in for a pelvic exam tomorrow morning and it’s pissing me off. As interventions go I know it’s still a long shot from the full-on IVF treatment but I’m just angry that (my) reproduction has to be medicalized AT ALL in this way. I think of that book that all my friends were reading when pg., I think it was called “giving birth the natural way” or something like that – anyway – it makes me feel a little violent. Being able even to think in those terms seems like such a luxury. Right now I resent everybody who got knocked up at home in bed and those who did the begetting with every fiber of my being.
This is just vitriol. It makes me feel ill. This doesn’t feel like me. But this is how I feel.
My nurse is very efficient, and I appreciate that, but somehow after talking with her I feel tremendously tense and wound-up. I feel like I’ve done something wrong and I have to go in for punishment. I feel like I’m inconveniencing her. I feel like a bad patient because my situation is unconventional (what with the commuting constraints and all) and that I’m an annoyance, that I ask for too much.
Evidently the nearest RE is in Syracuse and that’s where I’ll be sent after 4 more Clmid cycles. I’m going to try to do 2 this fall and then in the Spring, when T is here, might just go ahead and switch over.
Meanwhile, I called the naturopath for an appt. but they’re already closed for Labor Day.
I just want someone to take care of me. I don’t feel like I’m doing too hot a job of it myself right now.
Ok, the Inner Editor is speaking again. I just got off the phone with T., letting out all the tears I’d been bottling up throughout my evening class. I suspect that’s why I was so tired that by 9:30 I could hardly think. While it was helpful to analyze why I respond to the nurse in this way (it all comes back to, of course, my relationship with my mother) it was even more helpful just to hear his voice and know he’s going to be here tomorrow night.
Oh, and notice how I’m assuming this isn’t going to work.