So here we are again. Waiting to ovulate. Isn’t it boring? My God, but it’s boring. I am so bored of this. No wonder I go sex mad. Hormones be damned, I just need to blot out the boredom.
And this cycle is being so mutinously painful. Satsuma is on fire, and has been for days. I sit about gloomily prediction, variously, endometriosis, cysts, piranhas and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (to go with the Plague of Moths, naturellement). Oh woe, oh misery.
And I had to sit through someone at work whine-snivel-bitching for hours (OK, nearly an hour) about how stress is making her so ill, and that’s why she had many many days off work, and then she turned to me and said ‘and you’d know about that sort of stress, wouldn’t you? You’ve had to take a lot of time off work too.’
And I gave a very tight-lipped smile and I did not say ‘Actually, I take time off work because either my insides are tearing themselves to bloody shreds or I am miscarrying and my insides are tearing themselves to bloody shreds. Stress? Ah ha ha ha. I wish. Two weeks off because I’m stressed. Bring it on.’
Damn. Lost opportunity to create world-record-breaking Cloud of Awkward right there.
Not that I approve of Pain Olympics. No, really, I don’t. Pain, especially emotional pain, is too subjective and too dependent on a bazillion variables of personality, circumstance, luck, support, yadayadayada, for anyone to be able to say ‘mine’s worstest, because I went through X and you only went through Y’.
But I do think my ‘failed’ cycles are made extra-specially ultra shitty for me because my periods are so almighty fucking painful, and because I get so many aches and pains in the week leading up to ovulation. And I think it’d be all less shitty for me if I my body wasn’t ripping itself to bits in slow motion.
I’m not in a good place right now. Oh, who am I kidding. I haven’t been in a good place since, argh, *counts on fingers*, dammit, when was I last perfectly content with the way my life was going? When I married H in 2005? That was wonderful. That was perfect. That was what I wanted.
Since then, there’s been the endless, and growing, disappointment and sadness over Lack of Baby. And the grief over the miscarriages, which is merging from individual attacks of agony into one amorphous mass of anxst and sorrow that just will not fuck off. And the worry and distress of having such royally fucked, screwed, buggered and blasted innards, which seem to be getting a tad more craptastic month by month (well. Yes. That’s adenomyosis for you).
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
On the other hand, I’m not ready for the history of my reproductive years to simply be ‘We tried to have a child for years and years. Most of it hurt like hell. We had seven miscarriages. And, err, that’s it.’
At least, not without something else of wonderful emerging from it instead.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I thought I was having a self-pity party, but it seems to have been invaded by some kind of anoetic epiphany. I need a pencil.