This is going to be a pretty depressing post, so here’s a fair warning. I’m in my deep, dark hole—as my husband would call it.
I don’t know if Lupron is doing this to me or what, but I. am. sad. I can deal with the daily headaches—okay, those suck pretty bad. But I’m, like, depressed.
I imagine you all can—unfortunately—relate. There are all kinds and combinations of emotions and hormones associated with this hell: anger, stress, anxiety, brokenness, hope, hopelessness … The list goes on. But I don’t think I’ve reached the full potential of the meaning of the word “sad” until now.
It seems like such a simple word: sad. People throw it out there casually, like so many other words.
I’m so sad—deeply, deeply sad.
Obviously I asked God why this is happening to me—about two years ago. I don’t wonder anymore why I have to suffer from infertility. Whatever.
I do—however—wonder why God chose me to suffer this deeply knowing that I struggle with mental illness. Doesn’t He realize that I’m emotionally unstable? Doesn’t He know that melancholy is my middle name? I mean, seriously, couldn’t He have chosen a sunshine-and-rainbows girl? Does He want me to survive? How much will He “bend” me? Doesn’t He know I could break?
I know everyone struggles, though. I know suffering is a part of life. People probably think I’m throwing the most epic pity party there ever was.
But you know what? I’m tired of suffering. I’m sick of sadness. And I’m not just sick of it for myself. I’m pissed that we live in a world with so much sadness and suffering.
Gee, I hope my opening sentence was enough of a warning …
I read your stories; I look at your shared photos of your weddings, special occasions, celebratory events, etc. that you share on your blogs. I look at images of my husband and me on our wedding day. Such joy and happiness. And—it makes me sad.
We just didn’t know what was coming…
I mean, was the value of my wedding day the start of a heartbreaking era for me?
We put on our wedding gowns, our jewels, our veils, our treasures from generations past—and walk down that aisle toward the love of our life, our future, our dreams … the father of our babies.
… only to wake up to this nightmare.
I am NOT saying that marriage or my choice to marry who I married had/has an effect on my infertility. It doesn’t. I’m the infertile one. If anything, I drug/am dragging my husband down this path. He surely didn’t know what he was in for.
My point is that I had these two basic—but very fulfilling—dreams for my life: to marry a great man and have his babies.
It hurts me that you have to go through it too … because I know how you’re feeling. There aren’t many people to lean on, many people who understand … many people who know how it feels. Pieces of my heart are with you all because—although we live far from each other, haven’t met, may never meet—this bonds us together. So, for what it’s worth, I’m so, deeply sorry you’re hurting.
I’m constantly stuck in between that place of devastation (finding out you’re infertile, another BFN, etc.) and acceptance. It’s impossible to complete the grieving cycle, and sometimes I just want it to be over! You know how something heartbreaking happens and you experience deep sorrow for a period of time? Then you wake up and realize you can survive the day … though it hurts and you’re carrying this heavy burden. But you wake up the next day and do it again and again. The pain is still there; there’s a hole in your heart—but you can live. Then … weeks, months, years pass by and—eventually—that phase is over, and you’ve come to terms with it. You are okay with it; it doesn’t really hurt anymore. Well, I’ve been stuck in the survive-the-day-while-carrying-the-burden phase for a loooong time, and there’s really no end in sight that I can identify. Not to mention, there are phases in between that filled with hope (a new stim cycle) followed by devastation—again. And the mini, incomplete grieving rollercoaster starts all over again.
I do know “it could be worse.” Because—it really could, and I’m thankful it’s not. I’ve read online that the stress and heartbreak of infertility can be compared to that of cancer. I don’t know about that. I’m not going to lie: If cancer patients only feel what I feel (granted, it is pretty shitty), I’d say they’re the strongest people ever. It’s one thing to want a baby; it’s another thing to know your life is at risk. I would absolutely crumble. I know it could get worse. What are your thoughts on that, though?
But—for what it’s worth—sometimes it feels pretty damn bad to walk in the shoes I walk in.
Okay, sorry for the slit-my-wrist post. I guess this is what I’m feeling these days.
When are the professionals going to come up with antidepressants for TTC, pregnant, and/or lactating women?