I’m just looking for the line.
I’m pretty good at taking direction. I’m quite indecisive at times.
As a teenager, I would pine over boys—stupid boys—until my mother finally told me enough was enough.
I need my mother to tell me enough is enough.
I need someone to tell me enough is enough. But—as my dear friend, bodyshopgirl, told me: No one is ever going to tell me that.
I found myself in the same “spot” on December 9 as I was on September 9—plus or minus some snow and Christmas decorations. News of another failed cycle was fresh, and I didn’t want to just try again because “miracles can happen” or “it’s a gamble anyway” or “Saizen might really do the trick” or
“IT ONLY TAKES ONE.” Yea? Well I’ve had 97 eggs retrieved in the last 10.5 months and nada.
Is this some kind of joke? Is this a game to you, ovaries?
Deep down, I know what I WANT to do. But do I deserve what I want? Do I have more dues to pay? How much more time and money do I owe? I need to really suffer and hurt before it gets better, right? Welcome to the mind of someone who suffers from mental illness. Ha! You know what’s funny?! My psychiatrist and I decided I would stop taking Lexapro for at least the first trimester when I received a confirmed BFP. Well, shit. Guess who’s not taking her meds today or tomorrow because—technically—I was or am just a little bit pregnant.
My husband snagged the donor egg program brochure the moment he laid eyes on it. We were in the waiting room at our fertility clinic … waiting to a. have my eggs retrieved or b. have our embryos transferred.
I honestly don’t remember which day he grabbed it. But, does it really matter?
I mean, that’s how hopeless it is.
I’m so over hopeless.
I’m ready for happy shit.
A year ago I thought I’d arrived. Now, I’m back at the beginning. I don’t know what’s next, but whatever it is won’t be for a while … probably close to a year.
And that. just. sucks.