Closer to Fine

Good Morning Sunshines!

I’m getting this around late today because I scrapped the draft I was supposed to post.  I’m sort of having a hard time posting because I want this blog to be a source a levity for everyone, and yet I’m feeling more like a lead weight these past couple days.  I guess you can’t fake light-heartedness when it’s sunk.

I’m just in a funk since my RE appointment earlier this week.  I’m having that dueling inner-conversation of feeling sorry for myself and simultaneously feeling guilty that I’m not appreciating the blessings that I have.  And that push and pull is making me crazy, like minced meat feeling pie in my brain.

Smart, smart people (who like to do advanced math in their spare time I suppose) speculate that some black holes initially start out as stars that eventually burn out, collapse, and self-implode.   I think people can run the risk of becoming black holes too.   Have you ever met someone so void of joy and light that you practically run from them for fear of being pulled down in their dark, dark world?   I have, and I vowed not to ever be that person.

But I feel it, that black-hole pull on me.   I’m rarely short for words, as anyone who has followed this blog will know.  I love words, the feeling behind them, the creativity of them, the fun tumbles and twists  that words can perform.  But I don’t want to play with words these past few days.  I want to pull in.  Death star all the way.

My real-life conversations about the RE visit have been few, especially about  the dumb POF (premature O failure) stuff.   I don’t want to tell people or be consoled.  Don’t want to get comfort from my hubby or cry with my friends.   I don’t want to research alternative therapies or even look up the diagnosis on the internet, and I most certainly don’t want to think about the possibility that I’m out of the game.

What I want to do, is to sit in this black hole and be pissed (OK, I don’t usually say this word, but there is not another word that I can think of that fully expresses this feeling.  OK, I can actually think of other words, but they’re not on my G-rated blog word list.  Do you think ‘pissed’ makes this blog PG?).  I especially want to be pissed at Nadya Suleman, that idiotic woman who lives in a shoe who has so many kids she doesn’t know what to do.  Yup, being pissed at her feels like a the right thing to do.  It’s practically MANDATORY for me I think.

I have forced myself to tell a few close friends and coworkers what’s going on.  I tell them with detached emotion and this weird smirk, which I guess is my defense system for not crying or something.  And I’m proud of myself for telling people, because each time I do, it feels a little more real…and that means it might just be true.  But I also feel like I’m doing life covered in this ’silt’ of RE predictive badness.   I’m not sure if I’m mad at him too.  I know he was doing what he thought was best, but stealing hope from someone is equivalent to piercing their star.

I tell msyelf that I’m just being a total baby about this whole thing.   And I’m hoping that by being as transparents as I can with you now that I might find I’m not alone in my self-implosion, and that might make me not quite as bad of a person. 

Because I don’t want to be a black hole. 

I don’t want to be a POF, PCOS, ENDO, definitely IF, maybe IVF and quite possibly BFN type girl.

What I want to do is this:  drive myself  to California and steal all those 8 precious babies and pass them out to the most deserving IF ladies, like new houses on Extreme Makeover.  OK, that makes me think of the movie ‘Raising Arizona’ with Nicholas Cage and Holly Hunter.  Seen it?  Let me see if I can find a clip… OK here goes (warning, it does NOT have the no-cursing blog rule):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nqP3p5IBx8&feature=related

Now I’m lauging.  And that makes me feel better. 

Just a little closer to fine again.

 

Bye Friends.

(You know I’m kidding about the stealing babies thing, right?)