I am so fucking unhappy I can’t stand myself.
I read somewhere, damn me if I can find the link (which suggests I might have read it on paper) that less than 1% of women have three or more consecutive miscarriages. Less than 1%. Given that there are about 30 million women in Great Britain, given that about 15 to 20% of them are under the age of consent, given that most women won’t actually even be pregnant three or more times, this is probably a dumb-ass statistic best thoroughly ignored. But it still suggests that those few hundred-thousand British women (and the incalculable numbers of women world-wide) who fall into the Recurrent Miscarriage Club, are, in fact, by-and-large, women who really, really want to be pregnant. Which is why they get pregnant again. And again.
Whereas my entire family runs on the time-hallowed principle of ‘If at first you can’t succeed, pretend you never wanted to in the first place.’ ‘Try, try again,’ is simply alien to our clan psyche. We’re with Yoda. ‘Do, or do not. There is no try.’
My most predictable reaction to stress and misery is to stop sleeping. And let Bitter McTwisted and the Positive Thinking Fairy duke it out between midnight and three:
You don’t want to have kids anyway. Look what having kids did to [insert relation’s name here]’s marriage. Much better to stay childless and spend your Saturday afternoons having hot monkey sex on the living-room floor. Go back on the pill. You liked being on the pill. You could even go to work on period days and, you know, work (admittedly, it knackered your libido and drastically cut into the hot monkey sex). And anyway, you live in a pit of filth and are obsessed with ‘me-time’, books and knitting. You’d be a rubbish mother. A really rubbish mother. The sort of mother who abandons her baby in a pram at the bottom of the garden for three hours straight so she can read Baudelaire and drink Harvey Wallbangers in the bath.
Just stop now. Just stop.
You’re too chicken to get pregnant again, aren’t you? You can’t take it. You’re scared. You don’t have the guts for this. Think what [insert name of any one of a number of fine infertility bloggers here] went through. You’re pathetic. You just don’t want a kid as much as you think you do. Give up now, before you permanently derail something.
Look at you. Add one teeny weeny extra stressor to your existance (the poetry assignment) and you go to pieces. You haven’t even commented on anyone’s blog for, Scheiße, over a week? a fortnight? Have I used ‘pathetic’ already? How about really crappy friend?
And then for some reason, I’m really tired the next day and late for work and I hate work and I particularly hate the over-an-hour-each-way commute and this morning I sat down and had a little cry instead.
Does this all sound a little… ridiculous to you?
Anyway, I finished the poetry assignment and handed it in late, but I have an email from my tutor offering me extra time if I wanted it (she is being extremely kind to me, alas because she too has had the woe-bollocky-dreariness. Bastard universe). I emailed back saying yes please, so I assume that, even though I haven’t heard anything else about it, I’m safe? At least in terms of timeliness. I can’t answer for the poems. They probably exude a faint but noticeable smell of vapouring adolescent.
I think the creative writing course would be considerably more fun if I wasn’t so fucking unhappy. It’s not really cheering me up, as I had hoped. It’s just being another soul-sucking heap of crap for me to have anxiety attacks about. Which is hateful. Hateful hateful hateful. It was supposed to be my ‘all about me’, ‘let’s rejoice in May and the wonderful things she can do when she tries’ thing. Gah. GAH.
List of things to have anxiety attacks about also include:
- dispute with the Inland Revenue over mislaid paperwork, which is going to cost me money and involve me redoing the paperwork, I just know it;
- missing so much goddamn time at work for health reasons (not that anyone’s said anything about it, so I think this may just be me sweating one part 50% proof Catholic Guilt, one part adulterated Jewish Guilt and one part ersatz Protestant Work Ethic);
- while we’re on work, some of my colleagues are behaving in a way I find lazy, unprofessional, and unfair on the rest of us, and I am having kittens about it because, given own massive absences and somewhat ‘phoning it in from the pool-bar’ performance lately, I am so not owning the moral high-ground, but I am being driven completely bacofoil by having to redo their work on top of my own every damn week;
- I have a scan on Wednesday to see if the Mysterious Triune Fibroid(s) actually exist (this is going to involve more major work rearrangement shittity shittity shit). I want to be able to demand, hugely and with extreme entitlement, an exact explanation of what is in there, how many of them there are, and where, exactly, they are, because the next medico who tells me ‘fibroids are not a problem’ is going to make me cry. Submucosal fibroids are, ACTUALLY I THINK YOU’LL FIND, associated with recurrent miscarriage. No doubt because they fuck up the uterine lining they are lurking just under. So some clarity on this issue would go down charmingly;
- I even managed to have a panic attack because this period was rather lighter than usual. You’d’ve thought this was a good thing, given my usual tendency to haemorrhage for England. But why waste an opportunity to indulge in a complete and wobbly ‘what the hell is happening‘ duvet-chewing moment;
- Other people’s pregnancies and small babies. Am split neatly into delighted and relieved, terrified on behalf of (projecting, much?), and racked with guilt (ooh! More guilt!) because my first, fleeting instinct is to shout ‘Stop rubbing it in!’ and run away;
- I even managed a teeny-tiny stampy-feety moment because three (anonymous, obviously) people had unsubscribed from this blog’s RSS feed on Google Reader.
I suck. The end.