I am intolerable. Please beat me with sticks

There’s a stereotype, isn’t there. The Bitter And Deranged Infertile Lady (Bitter McTwisted!). The one who cries at the sight of babies and wants to push pregnant ladies under buses, who owns too many cats and possibly a life-size doll in a hand-knitted layette.

Yes, well, anyway. That aitn’t me.

Yet.

We’re not allowed pets in this rented flat, you see.

So, I went to this family wedding, and it was great. Really great. From the dear old git making a complete hash of the The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba on the church organ (H and I had the Queen of Sheba. On CD. Unmangled. Thank you), to the last soppy, silly, cute, hilarious dance. From the flower-girls skipping and prancing like ponies down the aisle to fending off the Drunk and Inappropriate uncle (there’s one at every wedding). H even got up and dragged me to the dance floor, an Event which last happened at some point shortly before the Bronze Age. It was splendid.

But I had, I just had to have, a Bitter McTwisted Moment. My Sister-in-Law has a grown-up daughter by her previous marriage, and this daughter is apparently a great example to me and a general encouragement to my hopefulness, apparently, because she had a miscarriage. And then went on to have three children in four years. So, umm, not exactly infertile at all, but that’s such a technicality, don’t you think? Anyway, baby number three is due any moment, is, in fact, a little overdue, so naturally SIL was all excited and had her mobile phone on the table infront of her throughout the wedding dinner and of course had to corner me and tell me how excited she was and how happy she was and how awkward three kids under four was going to be for her daughter (who, is, yes, younger than me, logically enough), (also, my heart freakin’ bleeds already), and so on and so on, and eventually I excused myself and went to find a deserted corridor to lurk in and a cold brick wall to press my forehead against. You-all know why.

H came to find me after a little while, and we hugged, and I went back to the party, and by that time the band was playing and conversation was no longer an unavoidable social duty.

Gah. I really hate myself for letting someone else’s happiness and excitement get to me like that. As if it’s anything to do with me. As if I need to let it in and play Compare and Contrast with my own fortunes.

Bitter McTwisted has been having all too many outings recently. For another example, I have another Internet site I hang out at – it is absolutely nothing to do with Infertility and my involvement with it predates my attempts on Citadel Baby by some years – and the people I’ve met through it are lovely and fantastic and we all share our lives and anecdotes and support each other and I have been avoiding the place for weeks, now, and I miss them and I am beating myself up about it regularly, and why? Because I feel so very uncomfortable there now. Because I am absolutely fucking miserable, and can’t share it there. Because there are pregnant women. Because there are people who hate babies and shit like that. Because there are family people whose families just turned up as and when. And because they have said things like ‘I’m sure it’ll all work out for you,’ and ‘you just need to be patient,’ and then gone straight back to complaining about how the fact they had one previous caesarian and then a second healthy pregnancy and birth means they are ‘rubbish’ at having children (um… two healthy babies in the same time-scale that I had surgery, two HSGs, three rounds of clomid, a miscarriage, more surgery, an infection, and now no longer respond to Clomid and am filling out IVF paper-work and SHE’S rubbish at having babies?). And because I have tried to talk about how miserable I feel there recently and been completely blanked, and I don’t know if people just can’t think of what to say, or don’t really know what I’m talking about because my troubles are not important enough for them to keep up with, or think I need to hush up and get over it already so are refusing to indulge me, or because my role is Funny Lady and I do not earn my existance there by being boring and miserable. And because I am skinned raw and have no patience or emotional elasticity left and need to be treated with kid gloves. And the longer I stay away, the harder it is for me to go back.

And I most certainly AM self-aware and intelligent enough to realise that it’s all nothing whatsoever to do with me. It’s not a competition, other people’s lives do not and cannot stop just because mine’s gone all crappy, their sorrows and joys are exactly and absolutely as hugely important as mine if not massively more so, and the reason I am not getting all the support I want is almost certainly because I am being a complete fucking wimp at asking for it.

But Bitter McTwisted is having a field-day and I can’t seem to rein her in just now.

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12 responses to “I am intolerable. Please beat me with sticks

  • a

    It’s natural (for me, anyway) to withdraw when I feel like people are not going to understand or care about my hardships. That’s most of the time. I don’t even tell my family much about my life, because the unimportant things get magnified and the large things get minimized. They certainly help with the huge things, but everything else is off-limits. I have a trusted few friends that I go to when I need support. They’re the ones who tell me to shut up and get over myself when I’m being a drama queen. They’re the ones who just hug me when there’s nothing else to say. I hope that you have a person or two like that in your life. They’ll be able to stand Bitter McTwisted and maybe nudge her back into the background.

    BTW, hope you’re enjoying your snow…

  • Rita

    I”m back – with a different site. I’ve been venting my anger for weeks. Bitter McTwisted in the flesh. Now I am speaking coherently.
    I know the pain you are feeling.
    {hugs}
    Rita

  • Nina

    Bitter McTwisted has a twin sister named Angry. She’s living in the States disguising herself as a redneck with fangs having delusions about her husband having an affair and all her friends and coworkers, and doctors thinking she’s crazy. She’s in the Witless Protection program. Yes, I meant it like that. Sorry, babe. I spent last night crying because I thought my YCU didn’t want me anymore. *sighs* I’m signing the club roster with you, so don’t feel alone.

  • AMH

    Not that it helps, but I understand precisely. Where we’re at, currently, is between a rock and a hard place. No insurance coverage for infertility, at all. One single ride on the dildo cam is $250. When we peeked at the ovaries this cycle, we haven’t a clue what’s going on – have they ovulated already? Or not yet? $250 more to find out if we’ve missed it or not. And the economy is in the toilet, and my credit is not sterling-silver shiny, so no financing is available for me. And where am I going to pull $15,000 for a single cycle of IVF from? Hm? I didn’t save that much to make a down payment on my house (oh, and home equity, hahaha, good one). In 5 years, I may be able to afford IVF. I’ll be 39. No one gets the tragedy of that. No one understands what the hell I’m so depressed about.

    Seriously. This is my life. Isn’t it? I’ve only one shot at it, and this is how it’s going to play out?

    Well, I’m exploiting your blog to share my own mctwistedness. But, boy, do I understand. Sorry.

  • womb for improvement

    Despite your title’s request to beat you with sticks I think you are doing that fine all by yourself. Stop. Don’t beat yourself up, of course you feel like this we all do. We all listen with increasing incredulity as people compare really very insignificant baby anecdotes with us and want to scream – how can worrying that’ll you’ll not get pregnant after three months in anyway compare to this. Take care.

  • Jane G

    B McT has an irish cousin also. The last christening I went to, I had a total meltdown and ended up crying in the spare room for hours on end. Afterwards I thought I must have looked like the evil witch in Snow White who cast a spell over the baby.

    And I own two cats.

  • Xbox4NappyRash

    She’s knocking around our house too at the moment, poor wee wifey is like a thundering bitch following the birth of a wee nephew.

    Ho Hum.

  • Betty M

    The silly cow does her best to get around. She spent years at my house – I didn’t answer the phone at home for fear of being on the end of yet another happy announcement trying to be uber-cheerful. She still makes the occasional drive by even this many years, treatments and children later. Bitch.

  • Aphra Behn

    I think the point about being cast as the joker may have a sliver of validity to it. It’s hard not to meet whatever is is that one assumes other people’s expectations to be – particularly when you’ve built them up yourself over time.

    However – pay attention now! – I also know that people in the other place care for you and worry about you for your own sweet suffering sake.

    Yesterday, yesterday to you hear me woman! we were talking about you. Bookmouse asked after you and I said “She’s ok, in that nothing spectacularly dramatic has happened. She’s not ok in that she’s still not anywhere nearer maternity.” I hope that was all right. It says enough for those who know, but not too much for those who don’t.

    Santra thanked us both for the question and the answer.

    Hyp said “This is a less interesting place without her. I hope she comes back to us soon.”

    Lil: “And I hope she makes it back soon, too. Also.”

    Magwitch: “Sends her some [zen]”.

    T: “* also sending her a hug and general GoodVibes ™”

    Sol said “Internet wierdos unite” in reference to something H did for Mr Sol.

    Whenever you come back, you are missed by people who care about you. I’ll tell them that I passed the message on. When you come back is of course up to you darling. I left for two years because of the burden of expectations on me. You don’t OWE anyone anything.

    With love.

    A/B

  • korechronicles

    No beating from here, too far and the only stick I have I am using to stop myself from falling over. And I think it might be a bit short.

    My Inner Perfectionist has made it her mission in life to make me miserable this past month. Would Bitter McTwisted care to join her on a Carribean cruise? They’d get on like a house on fire and you and I might get a break from their evil machinations.

    Stamping on IP’s big mouth to wish you peace and strength.

    X R

  • Helen

    Bitter McTwisted can’t be reigned in, babe. She’s gotta’ rampage sometimes, often at the worst possible moment where you say “Boy, I need this like I need a veruca in my lady bits, thanks very much!”

    I have no advice, other than where you are sounds damn familiar, and you are so not alone, babe.

  • Hairy Farmer Family

    I always used to think that if the entire world population was rendered magically infertile overnight, then the pain of it would be halved, at least. No more babies. Everyone in the same boat. No more family expectations. No more being lapped by 20-somethings.

    Infertility can legitimately be described as a shitty situation smeared with misery, with a side helping of helpless longing, and a peestick on top.

    So mightily impressed that H came to find you. Hubby does weddings with gleeful abandon, and would only have noticed I was missing if I had taken his glass with me. Hang on to that one!

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