I am somewhat overwhelmed by the amazing comments on my last post.
OK, so I am totally overwhelmed by the amazing comments on my last post.
My God, what have I done, what have I ever done, to deserve so much care and kindness? How have I earnt this much concern and thoughtfulness from people? I am, I always have been, one of the quiet lurkers on the edges of things. I don’t get noticed, by and large. I once contrived to slip away unnoticed for nearly an hour from my own 21st birthday party, for heaven’s sake. How, just how do I get over a dozen people, most of whom only know me from my vague witterings into cyberspace, to care that bloody much about me and the insides of my miserable little head? But they do. You do. Look at how worried you are for me. Look how seriously you take me, and how much you want me to be kind to myself and be happy. And so, I am completely overwhelmed. Dear God, whatever did I do to deserve you guys?
[Pause, while I hunt around frantically for another tissue].
Sorry. Having a moment.
Points noted, gathered, considered or otherwise springing from from your comments:
- You are all quite right. I do need a decent mine-all-mine counsellor/therapist/shrink. One who gets infertility, yes, but who also gets raging neuroticism and can deal with too-clever-for-their-own-good people, especially those too paralysed with up-bringing to be able to say anything other than ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’ [Digression: I have a close relative who also suffers from galloping neuroticism, and all her attempts to see a therapist ended in pitiful failure because, really, she was (is!) about seventy times more intelligent than anyone else in the room and would run rings round the poor bloody professionals, despising them all the while for not seeing through her. We are horribly alike in some ways. No idea where this digression is going. Just… therapist-hunting is hard, Barbie].
- Good Lord, but I felt vulnerable and exposed, reading all your comments. It’s one thing typing up your feelings, you know, ‘using your words’ and everything, and leaving them lying about for people to find. It’s quite another to have quite a few people pick them up and hold them in the palms of their hands with such infinite gentleness, and examine them at such length. I harbour a troubling conviction that I’ve put everyone to such trouble over so very little matter. Like a Victorian heroine being caught out in a fit of poetry or portraiture, I flutter about the comments whimpering:’ oh please don’t look, it’s really not worth your trouble, please? Please? It’s not a big deal, it really isn’t, please don’t mind so much about it. About me.’
- Only, it’s perfectly clear it is a big freakin’ deal and I am really quite bloody depressed and I am very lucky to have met anyone at all, let alone so many of you, who takes the time to get this through my vapouring defences. (Again, why? Why are you here? How have I deserved it?)
- Sol said : ‘…it seems to me that it might be the depression in and of itself which is stopping you coping and seeing what we all see so clearly, which is that you do have options regarding getting your public life more the way you would want it, whatever happens with the private [Bollox. over long sentence. And on May’s blog too]. I also worry that it might compromise your ability to make decisions regarding the infertility mess. Although I appreciate the hell of it is that there is very little you can do there.’
Yeah. Well. Sol is completely right. I haven’t done any chasing or pursuing of anything or anyone with regards to further treatment/new specialists. I’ve been sitting in a heap, rocking back-and-forth and keening instead. Which, you know, is perfectly reasonable behaviour for someone with their leg half-hacked-off, but there is a point where the sting fades enough for common sense to intervene. Medical treatment needed. Must go find it. So I nagged H about pestering Miss Consultant’s secretary about the appointment we’re supposed to be having this month, and I nagged H (again) about looking into getting a consult with Professor Regan’s RPL clinic, and then I retired to my chaise-longue with a triumphant expression (the deal – I have the miscarriages, H arranges the appointments. I think he’s getting off lightly).
- As for career momentum, the appallingly silly thing is, that I do know what I Really Want (and, honestly, despite my howlings and fussings, it isn’t a career in Academia. The howlings are mostly for my deeply maimed pride and self-image as OverAchiever ExtraOrdinaire). I do have a really rather good Plan for getting it. I made the Plan last summer, when I was finally getting over the whole goddamn ‘I am infertile and I miscarried’ agony (hah. Another regret, that I can’t nip back in time and tell myself to hang fire just a little, as, dahlink, it gets vorse…. Anyway). The Plan is still a very good one, and has the added benefits of a) allowing me to keep my current job, so I don’t fluster myself by launching myself unsupported into space, b) being fun (this is quite important) and c) really satisfying the actual heart of my longings and ambitions. I had rather lost sight of the Plan in all the post-summer mayhem. Ah! There it is. It appears to be behind a very thick wall of cold clear glass at the moment, but at least I can see it again. Does anyone know a good glass-cutter?