We were talking about something before I went off into a colossal sulk and had to be rescued from it by the Power of the Meme. Counselling. That’s what it was. And I did get some awesome comments of advanced awesomeness. So I shall address points raised, in an attempt to knock the volcanic ash out of my synapses.
Item – A couple of people pointed out that I should perhaps see a counsellor that ‘does’ infertility and loss, what with infertility and loss being such a total mind-fuck of immense fiddliness. My ex-counsellor is a specialist in infertility and loss. That was why we went to her in the first place. The latest counselling FAIL has thrown me for a complete loop for that very reason. She should get this! Why doesn’t she get this?
Item – As to H and my communication issues, I’ve had to apologise to him several times this week, for leaping forth on minimum provocation with a cry of ‘have at you, scurvy knave!’ and briskly slapping him about the beard with a handy Glove of Ridiculously Short Fuse. H is adopting a good-naturedly saintly attitude about it all, but has signally failed to offer to rub my feet.
Item – Eh, well, it’s not really a communication issue, is it? It’s a ‘May is being a spectacular harpy’ issue.
Item – HFF’s comment (my God! The love!) on the issue was Very Wise (she is very wise. Also, very funny and very kind. Also also, very good at cake). Did we set goals with Counsellor? Did I let go and weep hysterically in her office while shouting (incoherently, snottily, hiccoughily) about just how Not OK I was? No, and no. We set goals during the first set of sessions, and they were goals about communication, getting May to depretzel long enough to ask for help and support, and getting H to loosen the hell up and admit to his damn feelings once in a while. (It worked rather well. H was talking about his feelings only last night. It was very moving and sweet). On the second go-around, I think we talked some vague piffle about not really feeling OK what with the 2009 Mucho Shit Avalanche With Added New Year Arse-Gravy, 2010 edition, and then proceeded to demonstrate a beautifully interlocking and mutually-supportive communication out-break the like of which normally only happens in the ‘after’ case-studies in psychology text-books. Benevolent and baffled, Counsellor sent us away to get on with the communication lark we were clearly so bloody marvellous at.
Item – On the other hand, given that we are communicating as smoothly as the Dancing Cars in the Italian Job, and given that since she last saw us we’ve piled on a few more miscarriages and a diagnosis of ‘your uterus, it borked’, I do wonder what the buggery hell she thought we were there for. People don’t cheerfully chuck away £65 an hour for the ‘meh, bored now’ of it all. There’s a cinema just down the road if things have got a bit like that.
Item – I think I expected her to notice, or realise, there was more to it than that, and maybe pry a bit. l wanted her to pry a bit. I feel a right feckin’ eejit just marching into a room and saying ‘hello, I’m all unhappy and shit, let me tell you why. Even when I’ve paid for the damn room exactly so I could march into it and say exactly that. This is making me sound deranged, isn’t it? See? I need counselling.
Item – HFF is right, and H’s presence is very inhibitory. Not because I want to tell a therapist all about my plans to steal H’s credit-card and run away with a Bolivian Hell’s Angel called Marion. Not because I want to tell a therapist about all the ways in which H is Doing Me Wrong, starting with his habit of leaving the lid off the shower-gel and working my way up through ‘getting all defensive and refusing to listen when I go off on one about the shower gel’ to finish in style with something deeply unkind about the (rare! I hasten to note, rare!) occasions our sex life jumps the rails and topples over what with the stress and ‘do it NOW DAMN IT’ thing not being a turn-on after all. No. I can’t talk with H in the room because I feel deeply uncomfortable about letting H know just how miserable and frustrated I truly am with the way my life has turned out.
Item – I find myself just pointing at it all, at it all, and shouting ‘NOT! WANT!’. I fucked up a lot of things, my PhD (enough! We do not speak of that!), my health, my career. I gave up on ambitions because I just didn’t feel I could keep asking other people to help and support me while I worked for them. I felt ashamed for being so financially dependent. So I followed the path of ‘sensible’ and the path of ‘what other people think is right’ and the path of ‘fiscal responsibility, also, not being a leach on your spouse’. And then, H wanted to wait until we were solvent and adult and married before chucking out the contraceptives, and I went along with that too. I agreed to it. It was sensible.
Item – I am really too old and too intelligent to sit about blaming my parents/teachers/doctors/husband for my own spinelessness or lack of nous. The mess of Things I Fucked Up Single-Handed and Things I Let Other People Fuck Up For Me is impossible to unpick now.
Item – I am not the person I meant to be, and I still have to get up every morning and be this other, lesser, human being and pretend I like it. For H’s sake. I have to believe I did the right thing in giving up on being an academic, and that I did the right thing in getting a full-time job in the one career-path I hadn’t completely unfitted myself for. I have to believe that waiting until I was 30 before trying to get pregnant wasn’t the most appallingly stupid thing I’ve ever done. I have to believe that the life I have now is enough for me, and I don’t need or want more. Alas, I am an atheist, and belief is, among all things I suck at, the thing I suck at most.