Friday, January 7, 2011

well, at least THAT'S over...

the holidays, i mean. they are no fun if you're an adult. an adult with depression symptoms so bad that you don't want to/can't get out of bed during the cheeriest time of year. so bad that you turn away from everyone and mentally hibernate. have nightmares. ignore mirrors. hate yourself. give up.

(re-reading "the bell jar" is also not recommended during these periods of gloom and doom, fyi.)

which is where i was, trying to festive-up for my 7 year old stepson while feeling positively crippled by a relentless apathy so severe i couldn't move. (when you're sitting by yourself and find tears streaming down your face with no apparent outward cause, it's time to hide the medicines and firearms.) and i have no idea what brought it on. that's the real bitch of it. just came out of nowhere and slapped my face with sadness.

i know this is supposed to be a happy blog, inspiring for other stepmothers and full of adorable anecdotes about life with a 7 year old boy and making it in a hardscrabble world and all that, but you know, not every day is an amazing adventure in child rearing. some days are oppressively heavy. this happened to be one of them. or a series of them.

see, my husband and i would like to have our own child together. we actually thought we'd had a pretty good chance around the holidays. we made the mistake of allowing ourselves to get a little hopeful that we might have the kind of news we'd for which we had been dying: a positive pregnancy test. i'd been more hormonal and emotional than i'd been before, my body was acting all weird, circumstances were looking good, it would all add up beautifully.

man, hope is cruel.

christmas morning rolled around and the soul crushing began. the roller coaster that had been going on for a month hit bottom. we were supposed to see a movie but i just couldn't do it. i made half-hearted attempts at being a decent daughter. i wished for the day to end so i could drift off into sleep again. i think i showered. i'm not entirely sure. i do recall brushing my teeth once, at least. so that's something. there was a decent amount of stress eating involved.

the boy came back two days later. i wasn't doing much better. i managed to slap on the sunny face for a little while so he could open his presents and have fun but heart was elsewhere. where, i couldn't tell you, but the backdrop of a tim burton movie would be a reasonable facsimile.

anyway, the boy is back, he got kind of spoiled (which is another blog in progress), things are back to their semblance of normalcy, and life is going on. i don't know if i have it in me to keep trying for a baby of my own. that monthly heartbreak is getting to be a little too much to bear. i don't think i want to just give up on it. i somewhere between wanting IVF and having my tubes tied.

now, that's an uplifting blog. sorry. to make up for that, here is a picture of a goat being carried by a donkey.



better? good. 

3 comments:

  1. Oh, boy do I know what you are talking about with the depression. It is not a fun place to be. I am sorry you are going through such heartcrushing stuff, but glad that you can talk about it. Sometimes courage looks like waking up in the morning. Brushing your hair is a triumph. Keep going. You will pass through this.

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  2. OK, as for the infertility stuff. It's all nasty and descriptive, but I think I can help. This coming from someone who went through 2 years of hell and dissappoinment and now has THREE little monsters to call all my/our own. Give me a good time to come by and I'll explain everything in detail. I'll send you my phone number on Facebook. You can call me anytime. I am after all just about a half mile down the street from you. I'd love to help. Love ya and keep your chin up.

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  3. I'm sorry. I wish there were other words, because, in the grand scheme of things "I'm sorry" sucks.ass. It's what you say when you spill orange juice on the special olympics people on the first table at Sunday Breakfast (Happened, by the by. At A Taste of Europe.) Or when you rent books from the library and forget about them and the city attorney is sending letters threatening jail time (I'm pretty sure the time he billed the library for combined with stamps for all those letters actually cost more than the freakin' book I "stole".) I think you're a phenomenal mother and you'll get you BFP someday. And Little man will always recognize you as a momma.

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