Monday, March 21, 2011

Only problem is...

the hole I'm climbing out of?  In my mind it kind of looks like inside of the psycho's pit from Silence of the Lambs.

But that's just when I'm feeling negative.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Sunday

There is light today.

It was drizzling this morning, dark-ish, but now, later in the afternoon, sunlight through bare tree limbs, white sky.

Today winter becomes spring. It's my brother's birthday, too.  Even as a little girl, I thought it was cool that this day is his birthday.  The beginning of the season of light and re-birth, flowers and warmth. His birth coincided with the beginning of spring.

*****
Skype session with G went well.  I like her so far.  She has a grounded professionalism, and that calm that I imagine is how people used to describe me.  I dove right into my anxiety about starting therapy again, and all the guilt and digging into all the crap that I haven't been able to shake for very long for more than three years.  She is kind of holistic, in that way that she is aware of and embraces the connections between the mind and body and health and how the experience of infertility impacts it. She just wants to start with baby steps.  Little steps.  Like eating breakfast. One small thing to take care of myself.

I think I will get something out of this.

There was nothing earth-shattering about this first meeting.  She didn't really say anything that hasn't been said before about the immense guilt and responsibility I feel -- the sole cause of all of this, and how I can't climb out.  How can I live a life like knowing that I failed so miserably?  These are things I felt going into the conversation.  I didn't say all that, but I felt it.  What kind of life can I lead knowing I failed at the most important thing there is?  And that I continue to fail at everything else, over and over again.

*****
Talking with C today, I had some revelations.  They are not easy ones, and not ones I'm prepared to share here. But I do sense a...sea change?  a different perspective.  Oh, the guilt is still there.  But something has changed. Maybe.  Something that may help me climb my way out of this after all. I may get bloody and filthy and exhausted along the way.  I may not get all that far.

But maybe I can gain some footing. 

Or maybe it's just the sun behind the white sky encouraging me.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Naked

I'm at a loss.  I'm continuing to titrate up to the therapeutic dose of my new augmentation med, but each time, it brings on those, well, those things they warn about in the black box, if you know what I mean.  I'm also getting some of those lack of coordination and bits of aphasia which is really, um... what's the... disconcerting.  My use of language has always been something I could count on. One thing I felt like I could do -- I could find the right word, articulate my ideas, whether for school or otherwise. Actually, I'm even my typing is, um, hampered. Hard to tell if it's depression or the additional drugs.  There are times when my thinking is clearer, or rather, as C says, I seem a bit more engaged.  But, god, it just reinforces my feeling of all having all these holes in my head.  I even forgot to tell Dr. Shrink until almost the end of my appointment this week.  He said to pay attention to it and if it gets worse, we'll stop the med. 

What would be next, I wonder. 

*****
I start my therapy via skype tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. I'm feeling anxious about digging through all the details, whether of my loss or past or I don't know what.  Starting over again. She called to clarify about something on the intake form -- "looks like you've tried a number of meds." Yeah... No judgment implied, she was just asking about them. Something tells me I'm going to open up th computer and just start bawling my eyes out.

I worry about feeling better again.  Isn't that crazy? I've had these ups and downs.  I fear going up again because I fear coming back down again.  Like down is the natural state. Oh, that sounds great.  Down is my natural state?  That just makes me want to cry.

*****
The day I started the next dose up was was a bad day.  Like thinking about calling Dr. Shrink and asking him about me going away somewhere.  That feeling has passed, mostly.  But when I took the dog out I just got the overwhelming feeling of guilt.  I've struggled with this to one degree or another since my water broke.  That really high period I had the summer my niece was born?  Denial.  Somehow I have to come to terms with it. Hoping this new therapist, G, will help with that. But I don't think it was a passing panic like I was feeling earlier in the day.  This was hardcore, horrendous, scaring the dog, weeping out loud in the street guilt.

Dr. Shrink didn't even blink when I told him that I found someone long distance with whom I would meet via skype.  I told him about her qualifications (Psy.D., IF, Health/mind-body stuff, and certified bereavement counselor) and he said it sounds like she's got the approach, covers the stuff I need to work through this stuff.

He also said that most of my symptoms were not ones he associated with the med, and it makes sense.  I'm so twitchy and moody and oversensitive, sometimes fine, sometimes I can't stop talking. Hello, depression and anxiety and lord knows what else. I hate the way I feel. But you knew that.

*****
I know the last few posts have been difficult and raw. I've hesitated to spew all this stuff all over here.  Yes, I know, it's my blog, I should write what I want.  But, as I've withdrawn from a lot of people, this is where all these thoughts and fears and insecurities and bitching come out because I don't really feel like I can talk about these things with folks, or want to lay this stuff on them.  My family worries.  I talk to C and I talk to my sister, mostly.  I talked to B recently for about 3 hours, which was, god, like I have another sister. But I know people worry.  I guess I would worry, too.

So, I've hesitated here, too.  My new diary. To friends who understand a lot.  But it still feels very naked.  I know that I seem to have become the one who didn't make it. The DBM who hasn't moved on for one reason or another -- no subsequent pregnancy, no adoptive child, no resolution.  Not yet, anyway.  How's that for optimistic?  I'm the DBM on every TV show, every movie of the week. 

It seems that once again, I haven't asked for the help that I've needed.  I didn't demand people do what they should. I didn't seek out people who could *really* help me. And my sons.  Failure, again, it seems.  Even C doesn't know what to say anymore.

There's a part of me that feels like this new therapist, this new approach can help me climb back up.  Sort through the guilt and the trauma and everything else. So, you know, no pressure.  It may be that just having someone who understands, who can put words to things, to talk with me about phenomena and feelings of loss and grief around IF and loss.  And forgiving my body.  Forgiving myself.

So, yeah, I still hesitate to write all this down.  I feel crazy.  I feel like there's no good way to respond.  I feel like a freak show.  Three years out, now, and everyone else has moved forward. Integrated things. Grieving still, but integrated.  Like, the only reactions to all this dreck are, "wow, that's fucked up," and "man, how is it that she is still struggling, still up and down?  What else is going on with her that she hasn't been able to deal with this?" Rational or not, that's the hesitation.

And yet I can't seem to write this in a notebook.  I seem to need to share it.

So: Hey, everyone!  Here's all the crazy in my head!  Look out!

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Re-cycle

Over and over again and I am three years ago grieving, except not just the boys, but my hope for family and connection and achievement and meaningful work.

I am tired of all the pills.  All the false hopes and the "adverse" side effects (normal and humiliating) and crying, and frustration from everyone I know.  Trying to be hopeful that this combo will work. Knowing that if they do, then *that* indicates a closer approximation to exactly how fucked up I am.  And wishing I could just dump them all. And fearing what that would do to me. Physically and emotionally.

I'm tired of watching everything I want go down the drain because I have no guts, no strength in my legs to put one foot in front of the other.  I'm tired of busting my ass for a bunch of students who, for the most part wish they were somewhere else and who know they have a job after graduation so this is just one more hurdle for them to carelessly jump over. And who does the work? Me.  Trying to be fair, trying to engage them.

I want to run away. I'm tired of cycling through all the various feelings again.  Grief. Loss. Infertility.  Fear. Hope. Doubt. Loss. Grief.  This cycle is three years old already.  I'm tired of it. I am left behind.  Special as I always wanted to be.  But as I always feared.

I feel like I have no footing. I have nowhere to go from here.  Up? Until something fails again.  Until I fail again.

My therapist has her work cut out for her, but I wonder if even she can/will want to deal with all this crazy.  Have I mentioned how many times I've cried, just fearing that I am too fucked up for her?

I want to go away. I don't know where. I don't know what good it would do.  Most people I love are far away (please, no guilt).  Those nearby have little clue.  Or maybe I'm just tired of going through all this again with them.  I want empathy. Understanding. I don't want to have to explain.  

I don't care about the dissertation right now.  No ambivalence.  I don't have any idea how to spproach it or even get started writing about it.  All I can write is this crap.

10 years since my mother's gone.  The world is literally shaking on its axis.  Men openly and politically discount and hate women.  Capitalism openly gouges for needed services.

So much pain.  So much loss. We chip at the great wall with a little spoon. we bloody our knuckles for what?

That is another rant for another day.

I feel like I did 2.5 years ago. More functional maybe. But still.

I'm really tired of it.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

No words

No. Fucking. Words. 

The P17 shots that help keep women from going into pre-term labor has been branded by a pharmaceutical company who has decided to raise the existing cost from $10 to $1,500 a dose.  That's about $30,000 per pregnancy. Fuckers.

Thanks to Tash for posting this.

Intake

Between spring break and the flu, I've been watching a lot of TV.  Well, let's face it, I watch a lot of TV anyway, but that's besides the point. One of the networks was running marathons of the TV show House, from recent seasons. One stuck out for me in particular.  It was season 6, episode 2, when he's at the psychiatric hospital.  I couldn't shake this scene between house and his psychiatrist (played by Andre Brau.gher).


Nolan: Why do you value your failures more than your successes?
House: My mother caught me masturbating… to pictures of her mother.
Nolan: Can we get past these cut deflections?
House: Successes only last until someone screws them up. Failures are forever.
Nolan: So you accept that fact. You accept that there’s nothing you can do.
House: Okay, I accept the fact that there’s nothing I can do. Now, what can I do?
Nolan: You acknowledge failure, and you move past it. You apologize.
House: Wow. Powerful things, these apologies. Get someone to jump off a building and you say two words and you move on with your life. Hardly seems fair.
Nolan: Is that the issue? You caused him pain. If the world is just, you have to suffer equally? [House lets this sink in as Nolan laughs slightly.] You’re not God, House. You’re just another screwed-up human being who needs to move on. Apologize to him. Let yourself feel better. Then you can learn to let yourself… keep feeling better.
http://community.livejournal.com/clinic_duty/33247.html#cutid1

*****
I can't do it.

There are some failures that can't be made up for.  I don't believe I have to suffer forever my sins, for my failure to do the very best I could, what I knew my children needed. I thought I could take care of everything.  People failed me.  But I failed them. I didn't demand what I needed -- better care, better doctors, time off from school, more frequent doctor visits.

I don't think I did the best I could.I know I didn't.

I can't make up for it. I can't simply apologize.

I don't know if I can ever forgive myself.  Or, perhaps I can forgive myself, but

I don't know that I can ever trust myself or my body again, and

I don't know if I can trust anyone, any doctor, provider, to take care of me.

I don't know if I can trust anything, anyone.

I don't know how to exist in the world anymore.

Connect with people. Create.

Trust others. Take care of others.

Be taken care of.

*****
I'm trying to get back into therapy to move on. Get on with my life.  Completing the intake form for the therapist was eye opening, too.

Hindsight is not 20/20. Not in this case. There are moments of clarity, but so much that I just don't know -- how things happened, how I behaved, reacted.  Of what I actually needed.

I just don't know.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

RIP

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

This poem is called The Laughing Heart.  It was written by Charles Bukowski, who died 17 years ago today.  It came toward the end of a collection of Bukowski's work, given to me during my poet years in Boston by my brother, then the English major.

Bukowski's work tends to be more raw, graphic, hard-edged -- I don't know how to describe it, and the poet in me winces at the broad, generic terms I just used.  But I was more about Sharon Olds, Mary Oliver, Anne Sexton, Lucile Clifton, Donald Hall, Jane Kenyon.  I flipped through the pages of book, and found myself enjoying more than I thought I would. Connecting.  And then I came across this poem at almost the end.  I think it was the second to last in the collection.

I was working as an administrative assistant in a consulting firm, and doing a lot of writing. I had a good, well-paying job and overall a good work environment, though nothing thrilling or particularly challenging.

The copy that hangs on the wall of my cubicle at school is not the same one I posted on my cubicle wall at work, though it is beat up, with thumbtack holes and bent corners. My favorite lines: the gods wait to delight in you. I was writing all the time, and while not at my peak, I was feeling good, like I was ready for something, though I didn't know what.  I would stop, occasionally and read the words.

This was before I met C and before my mother became ill and before we moved to the midwest and before we couldn't get pregnant and before we did.

When my mom got sick, I was working a terrible job, in a place I hated with mostly horrid people. I kept this poem up on my cubicle wall.

there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.


It was hard to read it.  "Yeah," was usually my reaction, when I thought about it. "Right."

When my mother died, and when the Twin Towers came crashing down a few months later, this poem was still up on my cubicle wall, a new construction.  It as a new office for an old, old company.  Completely the wrong place for me. Demeaning.

it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.


"Shut up," I thought.


And yet, soon, I found a new job, a new career path where I knew I fit in.  Where I could do some good.  Do something important and do it well.

C and I got married. He was finding his way.  He got into graduate school. We moved halfway across the country. It was hard. It was really hard and really lonely.

I don't know where the poem was.  In a box or drawer somewhere.  In the book on my shelf. In the back of my mind.

I decided to try graduate school, the only way I could really teach, really reach out was to have a degree. I found my way to my department. I made a new copy of the poem. I posted it on my cubicle wall.

your life is your life.
know it while you have it.


And then we started trying to conceive.  And failing and losing and failing and losing.  And then we got pregnant with the boys.

you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.


And then we lost them.

I don't know if I took the poem down for a while after our loss.  Like the "hope is the thing with feathers" pendant, sometimes I just couldn't bear it. 

The semester I got my own section of the course I teach, the semester we were going to try again, finally, I began to hand out a copy of this poem to the students in my class.  Once I did it one class before an exam.  Once I did it at the end of the semester.  I talked to them about making their own meaning from it, and the meaning that I took from it. 

The work we do is hard. Life is hard. It can be really, really hard. But you can do it.  You can get through it. You can do more than get through it.

your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.


*****
The gods wait to delight in you.

The poem is still on my cubicle wall. A few inches from where the the pictures of my nieces, were posted up until a few weeks ago.  Even had to come down for a bit. They sit in my desk drawer.

It's been a few really, really dark months.  Dark like I didn't think I would see again.  And, even though I knew I was lucky, I could see those bits of light flickering, oh, it has been dark.

Yesterday, for some reason, I decided to look up the post I had written exactly 3 years earlier, just to see where I had been.  Here it is:

Saturday, March 8, 2008 

Broken Record

I hate this.
It's all bad.
This is so stupid.
I can't believe this is my life.
My babies are dead.
I want them back.

I have nothing else to say. 


*****

I am not in that place.  I have not been in that place, despite the darkness; it's been a whole new flavor of hurt.  Its context has broadened, and deepened. Grown more confusing, despite the simple kernel of truth. Of pain. I need help sorting through all the vines and roots.

I think some of the new medication is helping, though I've been fighting the flu, so it's harder to tell. But I'm feeling better. I emailed the therapist in LA who will skype with me. We will start on a trial basis soon.

I'm not claiming sunshine and light. In fact, it's one of those great, gray rainy days, perfect for tea and a book, curled up with a cat and a blanket.  Hope is too much, too dangerous.

But we will see, I guess.


***** 
The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.



Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Out of foolproof ideas*

This blog is shifting. Changing.  I don't know where I'm going, but I guess that has to be okay.

I think I"m going to try a trial run via skyp3 with the LA IF therapist (if she's willing to) since I'm still having trouble finding folks around here.  Might be time for a new name for this place, too. We'll see.

In the meantime, here's a song (and video) I like and which suits my state of mind (of course). Hope you like it, too.

Crap, can't get the image to fit. Here's the link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlxB9zGH8GU

Here are the lyrics:

No words, My tears won't make any room for more,
And it don't hurt like anything I've ever felt before, this is
No broken heart,
No familiar scars,
This territory goes uncharted...

Just me, in a room sunk down in a house in a town, and I
Don't breathe, no I never meant to let it get away from me
Now, too much to hold, everybody wants has to get their hands on gold,
And I want uncharted.
Stuck under the ceiling I made, I can't help but feeling...

I'm going down,
Follow if you want, I won't just hang around,
Like you'll show me where to go,
I'm already out, foolproof idea, so don't ask me how
To get started, it's all uncharted...

La la la-a-a-a.
Oh-h-h.

Each day, countin' up the minutes, till I get alone, 'cause I can't stay
In the middle of it all, it's nobody's fault, but I'm
So lonely, Never knew how much I didn't know,
Oh, everything is uncharted.
I know I'm getting nowhere, when I only sit and stare like...

I'm going down,
Follow if you want, I won't just hang around,
Like you'll show me where to go,
I'm already out, of foolproof idea, so don't ask me how
To get started, it's all uncharted.

Jump start my kaleidoscope heart,
Love to watch the colors fade,
They may not make sense,
But they sure as hell made me.

I won't go as a passenger, no
Waiting for the road to be laid
Though I may be going down,
I'm taking flame over burning out

Compare, where you are to where you want to be, and you'll get nowhere

I'm going down,
Follow if you want, I won't just hang around,
Like you'll show me where to go,
I'm already out, foolproof idea, so don't ask me how
Oh-h
I'm going down,
Follow if you want, I won't just hang around,
Like you'll show me where to go,
I'm already out, foolproof idea, so don't ask me how
To get started, it's all uncharted...


[ These are Uncharted Lyrics on http://www.lyricsmania.com/ ]


*copyright Sara Bareilles 2010

Friday, March 4, 2011

Achoo

My dear, wonderful and giving husband has given me the cold/bug he had last week.  It's years since I've had a cold -- or at least a bug lasting more than a day or so, but this is the end of day two and does not appear to be leaving any time soon.  I used to say that my work in a day care center and middle school gave me a rock solid immune system, but this time, it seems to be gravel. And, boy, am I whiny.

So, the work I wanted to do, the writing I needed to do, the grading I promised to do has not been done.

I worry about the writing because my progress this semester has not been what it should.  Of course, if I come back with something brilliant at the end of spring break (starts Monday) maybe I'll be given some leeway. Let's hope.

*****
I called and left a definitive message on therapist's voicemail.  Thanks and goodbye.  Dr. Shrink has called a couple times to let me know he's waiting for call-backs from some local OBs and women's health professionals.  Unfortunately, the first name he came up with is a rec from my RE, an MSW who has been helpful with some of his clients.

The MSW degree doesn't really bother me, although there is weirdness re-creating the connection with the RE and I wonder about experience. I also wonder about the complexity (or lack thereof) of my issues, and where the focus needs to be.  Do I go for the IF specialist who is experienced with IF and general depression?  Or a psychologist versed in depression and experienced in treating women with IF?

It seems to tied together I can't seem to parse out what's going to be most critical to getting me healthy and functional.

*****
I'm also concerned about my diss proposal.  I think I'm going to go back and focus on the questions I was asking a couple years ago for that project I did for class.  I need to really think about it and lay it out.  I think I would be able to do it with relative energy and depth if I can just get started, get past the sneezing and whining.

Lovely thing about being sick is that it reminds me of being depressed:  no energy, weird appetite, foggy brain, poor concentration. Hard to tell if the meds are working, with the cold, but I'm ready to be done with this. All of it. I have some thoughts about therapy and treatment, but I think I've reached my capacity for sentence formation.

Thanks again for all your comments and support.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The next day

I don't have as many details (or maybe the patience to -- titrated up the dose today) as I thought.  Let's see.*

Essentially, she implied throughout the session that I was using the loss and infertility and grief to get in the way of really dealing with my depression (a distraction, like bitching about my brother, or getting off topic). I tried to conceptualize for her that the experience of the infertility and loss and grief seem to be enmeshed (I can't think of the right word) with the depression, and that the only way to get through the depression was to try to parse out what was what and how one affected the other.

But of course, I'm just the depressed client, what do I know.

She even told me about a couple she treated who had tried for maybe 10 years to have a child and got a surprise pregnancy, made it all the way to delivery and the baby died.  And she treated them. And they got pregnant again and treated them through the whole, fraught second pregnancy that did result in a living child.  (See? I can treat you too?!?) I said, she was very lucky to get pregnant a second time if she had been infertile for so long.  The chances are infinitesimal. Yes, she was very lucky, said my therapist.

During my session, I tried to communicate to my therapist the experience of losing not just the child, but his future -- made harder by seeing those his same age going through all the milestones I thought I would go through with him. Caught up in the discussion, I said, "Imagine your children had died at age 3, but you see all their friends going through elementary school, high school, prom..."  And she said, starting to cry "I have to stop you there, because you're starting to make me angry.  My daughters, at age X and X+3 watched their father die a horrible death and I was a widow trying to take care of two fatherless children." I made some comment about me losing my mother, too, but of course as an adult it's different (actually, I agree with that). I don't even really remember much after that. As I left, she asked if I would be back next week and I said I didn't know.

To be honest, I felt a little bad about bringing up something that would be so painful for her and maybe it was a little too much.  But as I took a drive to burn off some anger and sadness, I realized something and called her. I said, "I'll be in touch in a month to let you know what my plans are.  I also called to say that I realized, after our conversation, that it seems that you believe your pain is (greater/more important/more significant) than mine, and I believed that was not necessarily the case.

I can't imagine being a widow with two small children.  For Christ's sake, my friend B was days away from the very same situation. With smaller children.  But I think that, aside from the arrogance (common in the public mind, I think) that there is not complexity of experience and pain in the impact of IF (certainly none she needed to even look into), my therapist believed that her pain was worse than any mine, and I didn't believe that was true.  Can you say medalist in the Pain Olympics?  Guess what? I felt my dead child against my leg but was too drugged to do anything about it.  I delivered my dead sons and held my mother as she died a terrible death.  What medal do I get?

I hate that.

So, the message from my therapist from yesterday?  I didn't want to listen to it, and C didn't want to, so my sister volunteered and I let her.  She emailed me the message:  My therapist still thought we could still work together, and hack away at the work we had to do and was saving my spot for next week.

Holy. Christ.

*****
Finally got to talk to Dr. Shrink, whom I gave the session highlights and told I was actively searching for a new therapist. I told him I felt like we crossed a line and that I wasn't comfortable gong back.  He didn't argue or challenge. He said he'd check with a couple of people locally.  "There's got to be someone who's got some experience with this around here."

I'm still not sure about, well, much -- how I've been feeling, thinking about myself -- is it "simply" depression or IF complicating things or what.  Don't know how to communicate anything, emptiness, hopelessness, helplessness, fatigue, poor concentration, poor sleep -- what to tell whom... it's easing, maybe, I think. And I can eat now. Maybe that's the drugs.  But what does that say about my mental health in general?

Oy. C keeps telling me that I can let it go for a little bit.  I don't have to constantly think about it.  He's right.  But it's hard.

*****
Well, I guess I had more to say than I thought.  Thanks for listening.  And for all your kind, supportive comments on my recent posts.  It means a lot.


*Yes, yes...more than I thought...

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

breaking up is hard to do

Broke up with my therapist today. Boy, was that ugly. Really Ugly.

The only satisfaction I have right now is knowing that I was right:  she had not done one moment of research on infertility and its potential impact before I sent her those links last week. So much for respecting your client's experience.  And informing yourself about it, too.

She thought she knew all she needed to know about it.

There's far more to tell, far more, but I'm exhausted.

She just called my cell, too, but that -- along with the story -- will  wait for tomorrow, I think.