Throw rocks at them.

I keep thinking of my poor Dad, and I keep thinking I should have been a bawling snot-faced mess at least twice by now. Possibly my self-preservation module is concerned that I wouldn’t be able to stop and I’d dehydrate all the way down to a little prune. Possibly it’s all too big to have a proper cry about. Possibly crying is so inadequate a response. On I marched, dry-eyed, telling everyone I’d had a lovely relaxing holiday, thank you.

In the end I had a huge great cry about something else entirely. This is often The Way of Catharsis.

We’ve reached the usual ‘did I just ovulate? Was that ovulation? No? OK, was that it? What about that? Twinge? Ow? No, temperature hasn’t gone up. Or has it? No. How about now? And now? And now?’ stage of the cycle. Which can go on for anything from a week to a month. Aaaaand how weary, stale, flat and unprofitable can one couple’s sex life suddenly get? Heigh-ho.

The thing is, it’s me that doesn’t want to have sex (I know! Me!) Sex. Ugh. Too stressed (ironically, in some part because we’re not having sex. So clever), too headachey. Too miserable about my Dad. Too grumpy with H. I just want to go to bed in gigantic sturdy double-gussetted knickers and pyjamas and thick woollen socks and chain-mail. This is upsetting. It’s… not me. I’m normally fairly up-for-it most of the time, and practically feral just before ovulation.

I was doing so well. I was cheering up and feeling perky and sitting up and looking about me and everything. The holiday was supposed to be a lovely cuddly jaunt in which H and May frolic happily in the interesting historical ruins and thoroughly test the bed-springs of every good B&B up and down the country. And then we’d be refreshed and we’d survive until Christmas.

And then my Dad made his revelation.

And then, my friend’s Dad died.

And then, my Mum called to tell me that one of my cousins was pregnant. The one whose insides my aunt her mother keeps wishing to discuss with me, as this poor cousin also has a sod of a time each month. She’s a couple of years younger than me, and she and her boyfriend had only just, only just, started having the ‘shall we move to somewhere nice to raise bambini?’ conversation. I guess her insides aren’t as royally fucked up as mine after all, given that she’s safely out of the first trimester and into that hallowed land of ‘it probably won’t go wrong now’ and we’re all being told about it.

Excuse me, I have to just go and howl with envy for a few minutes.

That’s better. Of course I’m happy for her. She’s my cousin. She’s even a cousin I like. And the spectre of my terrifying Uterus of Doom was scaring everyone, and People Were Worrying. But no fear, I’m still on my own, here in the Sterile Death-Raddled Hag corner of the family. Good. I don’t want company. I want to get out of this fucking corner myself.

So H and I had a horrible row, about the lack of sex, and about his reaction to the lack of sex (seriously, it was astonishingly unhelpful. Even H was astonished at how astonishingly unhelpful his astonishingly unhelpful reaction was). Unfortunately his reaction included a… a… hmm… behaviour* that has served him very ill on every past occasion he has seen fit to use it, because it always makes me fucking ballistic (rather than fucking ballistically, which could even be fun). And I was very, very, very angry, and I said a great many furious, nasty things to H about being selfish, and spiteful, and knowing bloody well that that was a stupid unhelpful way to behave so what in God’s name was he thinking? And then I cried and cried, because we’ve had this row so many times and now was really not a good time to have it again.

We did kiss and make up, indeed with some enthusiasm (reassuring).

But I am still angry with H. There are times when you can get away with being a thoughtless dillweed, and there are times when you really, really can’t. There are times when you can rely on your spouse’s patience and affection to smooth over aggravations and assume good intentions on your behalf, and there are times when you should be exercising your own patience and affection to the utmost because your spouse is at the end of her tether. Again. Fuck and alas.

Dear Universe, please go and crap on someone else, now. Preferably a Jesuit.

P.S – In the course of the row, I also realised it simply had not occurred to H that all the above stuff about my Dad’s abusive childhood and my friend’s bereavement and my cousin’s pregnancy and my lovely holiday being ruined and my recovering mood jammed back down the crapper would dent my libido. I have no idea what to say or think about this. I think I shall just let my mouth hang open for a while. It seems the only adequate response.

* If H wants you to know what this behaviour is, he can tell you himself. It’s a fairly minor thing in the grand scheme of things. It’s just, he’s been doing it for years and it always, without exception, upsets me, so the molehill has accrued a gigantic mountain of ‘if you cared for me you’d cut that crap out’ and ‘it’s no big deal and I don’t realise I’m doing it until it’s too late’ and ‘seriously, if you cared for me you’d cut that crap out‘ and so on ad infinitum.


9 responses to “Throw rocks at them.

  • wombattwo

    Dear Universe,
    Enough, now. I mean seriously? Enough. As May says, please go and crap on someone else. If it could be the evil person who abused her dad, so much the better. It’s time to start being fair, for once. Or I’ll come and batter you with something very heavy. Thank you.

    I know with my husband, he is able to compartmentalise things so effectively, he often wonders why I can’t. And didn’t understand why I used to cry after sex for weeks and weeks after we lost our baby. And wonders why I can’t simply accept the fact that my uterus is buggered (not literally…) and move on. I don’t understand him; he doesn’t understand me. Which inevitably leads to rows and accusations and more crying. I sympathise, and send hugs.

    I don’t know what to say about your cousin’s pregnancy – you know from reading my blog that I struggle with this very much myself – just hugs and I hope and pray that things improve. Bloody quickly.

  • a

    Well, it would appear that the Universe has pulled its largest crap dump truck up to your driveway and wants to unload it all. I’m so sorry that this is all coming at you at once…but maybe being overwhelmed is better than feeling each little stab individually? I just hope it’s over soon and you can leave that corner clear for spiders to build giant cobwebs.

    (I am now desperately curious about H’s “behavior”)

  • Claire

    As someone who has been abused I’ll agree that yes the perpetrator should be punished and that whatever happens to them it won’t be enough. My Dad went to a Jesuit boarding school and he, and his friends, were damaged by all sorts of terrible experiences.

    What is my point here? That you are lovely to be so disturbed by your Father’s experiences. It shows you to be very empathetic. Hopefully this revelation will enable you to see him in a better or at least more explainable light.

    When awful stuff like that happens we have a choice whether to be a victim or a survivor. It is survivable. My Dad survived and thrived, where some of his friends did not. I too survived my horrible experience. Maybe by talking about it your Father can move from victim to survivor.

    Things like this are horrible and awful but the only way to move on is to talk about them. It’s upsetting for you but may be positive for him. xxx

  • twangy

    Oh man. It’s like a perfect storm of misery. So sorry about it all – just too completely shit and awful.
    Better times HAVE to be coming, don’t they? Law of averages..? Something..?
    Keep on, May.

  • twangy

    Oh man. It’s a perfect storm of misery, on all fronts. So sorry about it all – just too completely shit and awful.
    Better times HAVE to be coming, don’t they? Law of averages..? Something..?
    Keep on, May. Hoping for you.

  • twangy

    Uh-oh! Over enthusiastic clicking! Sorry. Delete as appropriate!

  • L.

    I’m so sorry, May, that things are so hard right now. From the stories I’ve read it seems that one of the worst side effects of infertility struggles is the way it impacts relationships: with one’s spouse (who also suffers, but from a different perspective that doesn’t always mesh at all), and one’s family and friends. It sounds so corrosive, and especially so at the time when all you need is assistance to keep you slogging through the unrelenting and central misery of not having the child you want so much.

    I wanted to tell you to go easy on yourself, because there’s a lot in this post about the way you feel vs. the way you want to feel, and “shoulds” and “oughts” in the emotional realm just makes things worse, I think. But then at the same time anyone who feels utterly crappy and sad wants to feel better, that’s not the same at all. Maybe I’ll just sum up this mess of a comment by saying that I hope you feel better soon, I hope that you and H. work out this particular knot soon, I hope that if you don’t feel better right now you’re not down on yourself about it, I hope that you give yourself some time to regain your equilibrium after your dad’s revelation. Just.. be gentle on yourself, no matter how you feel. I think it’s like sleep deprivation–if you have had a lot of knocking about recently, emotionally speaking, your mood will be much more vulnerable to other shocks, and slower to recover.

    It sucks, and again, I’m sorry. Transatlantic hugs for you both.

  • Betty M

    Ahh libido and infertility/uteri of doom – not a good mix. I would also like the universe to go shit somewhere else for a change – preferably somewhere nice and far away. And whilst I’m telling the universe what to do can I also add that there is to be no more no more hopeless dillweedery from anyone!

  • Solnushka

    It really sucks that you haven’t got the benefit from your holiday that you should have been able to. ut not surprising and you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t feel your dad’s situation as acutely as you do. Imagination and empathy are terrible things really.


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