A few weeks ago, what with me being in a permanent rage and H in a permanent funk, we asked our old counsellor if we could come back for another go.
And we had two goes. One just before Easter, and one the week after, and then she sent us off to get on with our lovely lovely lives. Because we don’t need counselling, you see. Our communication has massively improved. We seem able to talk throught things sensibly. We seem perfectly ‘with it’. And she waved us good-bye.
Counselling, massive failure of, because we are so freakin’ advanced.
It’s perfectly true that H and I communicate better these days. It’s perfectly true that my new improved ‘tell the truth and shame the Devil’ stance on ‘those’ questions (from family, from colleagues, hell, from random passers-by in Sainsburys) is actually liberating and shuts people the fuckitty-fuck UP when they’re being inappropriate (not that I’ve had to use it much. Also, totally failed to use it on H’s family at Easter when they were all being serial dill-weeds about the Christmas miscarriage. Um…). It’s perfectly true that I don’t feel nearly so lost and hopeless as I did after losing Pikaia. [N.B. I’m not hopeful that I’ll get a kid out of this. I’m just no longer convinced childlessness = nothing but endless suckitude until I die. This is good, right?].
Yeah, but. But but but. H and I communicate better overall, but we still have spectacular failures of mutual comprehension. Last night, for example, we managed to reduce each other to tears. Actual tears! And it was the most pointless argument in the history of arguments (though I still think H was being a self-rightous, pompous twat-weasel. And H no doubt thinks I was being an unreasonable harpy. Whatever). I still have lovely twitchy anxiety attacks when cheerfully clueless colleagues insist on telling me all about The Joy of Parenting, Now With Added Cute edition, or demand that I lavish coo on their grandchildren’s photos and ask me, wistfully, if my mother minds not being a grandmama (answer, she is a grandmama, thank you, *frosty stare*).
And the fact I didn’t get knocked up last cycle is making me crazy.
I am aware (see? Go me and my awareness!) that this is in part because Jesus Christ, could my periods get any more horrible? (disclaimer: pleasedon’tanswerthatI’msuretheycould). Three days, three days, of puking and being unable to stand up straight and counting the motherfucking minutes until I could take another painkiller and I was taking diclofenac AND cocodamol. I feel like a small nail bomb went off in my pelvis. I sat down on a bench in the park this lunch-time and had a discreet little weep out of sheer self-pity. It hurts, damn it. And if I don’t get (oh, and stay. Staying would help) pregnant next cycle, I shall have to go back there for another few days. And again after that. And again. And again. Only way out? Sterilise myself. Temporarily, permanently, either way I’m 35 in May and I do not have time for this shit.
*Cue full-blown hyperventilating panic attack*
See? I’m not so sure I am so freakin’ advanced. I do not feel I am coping, and I do not necessarily feel H is coping with me.
But perhaps I expected more from counselling than it could give. I was hoping to have the Bad and the Crazy lifted off me. Instead I was given a block-and-tackle (some assembly required) and left to get on with it. It dawns on me that this is all counselling can do, and all it will ever try to do. Allen key. Instruction leaflet. Flat-pack. You’re on your own, kiddo, and that’s the point.
I still feel cheated, though.