Mental health is a fickle bitch. I’m on top of this though. I’m going to let it do its thing. I’m not going to hold back and I’m not going to judge myself.
The anxiety from Wednesday was lead in my chest. Still is. I kept catching myself holding my breath. Still am. Today is better. Sort of. It’s either 1’s or 0’s. I’ve cried the one time. Welled up a dozen. So far. It’s still early. I’ve not put whiskey in my coffee yet. Let’s call that a win. I’m not even, what I would call, a drinker but desperate times and all…
There is a cycle to grief. All these stages. You move from one to the next. I am cycling though them at a pretty decent clip. Almost hourly. I’m not sure it’s supposed to work like that.
Denial and isolation. Check.
Acceptance. Ehhh, jury is still out. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Right now. In this moment. I’m stuck on anger. And I don’t even feel bad about it. This might seem trivial but you want to know what has my knickers in a knot? Other than saying “knickers in a knot” like an old bag…
They don’t count.
In the world of pregnancy and loss. Our losses don’t count. I was never scientifically pregnant. They weren’t miscarriages because they were never pregnancies. Ain’t that some shit? My body never took them in and started making HCG. So they don’t even count. Even though they existed. They were real. We have pictures of them. We have their Petri dishes. Isn’t that shitty? I think so. They count to me. And to my husband. So, science can suck it.
I’ve had miscarriages and I tell you what, THIS feels like it. It is very much real. My heart feels it. It aches.
After the September transfer failed I had a meltdown when my period started. He was in there, I knew he was. I had a hard time using the bathroom. Irrational? Maybe. I wanted it all to be over with. I was sad and angry. I should not have been having that period. I was supposed to be growing a human, dammit. But the day I started my period I also started my meds to prepare for the next transfer. Silver lining. I had a reason not to ruminate. I had hope.
And now, this time around, I am dreading it. I stopped my meds so I expect my period to start over the weekend. I don’t want it. It’s a physical reminder of the failure. Of the loss. I’m hurting and I’m pissed off.