I do not know where my towel is.

Well, the drama seems to be over for the moment, in that my girl-parts have been chemically beaten into submission, I am feeling rather healthier, and nothing will happen until June the 11th. This is quite good, and, I suppose, restful. Or would be but alas I now have the time and energy to notice that work is all complicated and busy. I’m just glad I work part-time (because I am very lowly, being a mere assistant, but am going back to university soon, so will be all qualified and less lowly, and presumably full-time and actually earning money, rather than pittances, and, incidentally, what is it with me and exceedingly long and complicated parentheses? Anyway) and am simply not there for two days of the working week.

Unfortunately, I now also have had the time and energy to to get good and depressed.

I only started this blog so as to be able to get things off my chest and thereby maintain my sense of humour and proportion. So far, so face-down in the slough of despond. Is this humorous? Is it proportionate? Is it buggery. And to the extent where I don’t really want to blog because all I have to say is ‘damn, I’m depressed.’

The thing is, I wasn’t expecting this. Oh, this is indeed an infertility blog. I knew I was infertile. Good old PCOS. I expected to be blogging grumpily about my one pathetic ovary’s pathetic refusal to cough up an egg, also weight and hairy toe issues, and emotional crapola in spades, possibly even occasional two-week-waits, and hopefully toe-waxing anecdotes would amuse someone (it hurts, BTW. Do not attempt at home). I was not expecting the Bleeding. I was not expecting the Inhospitable Uterus, with no less that three (three! How’s that for absolutely no sense of proportion?) separate other problems. I was not expecting to be dumped back on the pill and banned from trying. I don’t have a Sense of Humour prepared for this eventuality. And, with true Timing of Irony, I keep wandering into conversations or news articles about infertility, in which some ignorant wee bastard inevitably says something that has me hopping mad and/or even more depressed.

So. Time to stop flailing about in the slurry, climb out of my pit, have a shower, and pay attention to something, anything, else. In the spirit of paying attention to anything else, I have gone on a diet.

Yes, I know. Have body issues, will aggravate them.

But I want to be slimmer before surgery. I want not to look like a bin-liner full of yoghurt. I want to get bloody doctors off my back. I also want to prove to them that weight-loss is not the magic answer to all my problems, contrary to their earnest protestations. Losing weight will not re-start ovulation. I once was slim. I was slim for years. I didn’t bloody ovulate then either. But if I get actually slim then I can PROVE it, and if I do, by some miracle, start ovulating, well, I’m hardly going to be so petty as to grudge it. So. Diet. I am being incredibly sensible and doing the GI diet, which everyone seems to be recommending for PCOS and insulin issues anyway. I lost a few pounds recently sort of by accident, which has made me come over all hopeful and chirpy about this. My usual state of mind re: diets is deep cynicism plus doomed attempts to learn to love my thighs.

What else? Knitting. I finished my step-Mother’s socks in time for her birthday – yay me! – but have hurt my fingers doing it becasue I knit with the demented tension of a thousand neurotic harpies. No more socks until I work out how to breathe and knit socks at the same time. So I am now working on something so delicate that I have to knit loosely or I’ll tear it to shreds – my several-year-long Masterpiece, a lace shawl. It is in fact a so-called ‘hap’ or ‘crepe’ shawl, in yarn as thin as sewing cotton. Bazillions of stitches. It will look rather like this one, only green, with cream stripes, and actually, twice as fine. Because I am a mad perfectionist idiot. And I might just finish it before advanced old age steals my close vision.

Umm. And re-establishing a sense of, umm, spontaneous fun, I suppose, with my husband. Umm. Now that I can do spontaneous fun again. *Blush*

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4 responses to “I do not know where my towel is.

  • deannavs

    I’ve been experiencing similar thoughts lately, namely: Why am I blogging if suddenly I have little to say, since everything has come to a god-awful halt? No more 2WW angst-fests, or gripes about this or that piece of moronic goodiness that came out of a doctor/tech/nurse’s mouth. But, I think you’re right when you talk about finding new diversions, new things to think about, and then write about. I’m hoping to take your advice on this.

    And, just so you know, I’m a big fan of your “exceedingly long and complicated parentheses.” Keep ’em coming. 🙂

  • Adrienne

    I know exactly how you feel. I go back and read my own posts from the past few months and think “Damn, I’m just depressing, depressed, and depressive.” So then I resolved to write about Other Things. But I couldn’t think of Other Things to write about. So I’ve simply cut way back on blogging. Feh.

    Good luck with the new attitude vis the diet. I need to borrow some of your enthusiasm, would that be okay? I’ll give it right back, promise.

  • Vanessa

    I think we all bounce around on the upward/downward spiral-I don’t know any bloggers that are constantly happy, and if I did I think I’d want to smack them.

    Go with it. You’ll undoubtedly not be alone 🙂

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