Bad days

     I don't know what it is. I've never been able to describe it properly.  At it's worst, I drowned in it - choking on it, feeling it thick in my lungs.  I used to keep it a secret because I barely understood it myself but I've learned that it happens more often and lasts longer if I keep quiet.  Now I call it 'my bad day' and reach out to whomever is willing to help keep me from going under.

     I've started to recognize when it comes sneaking around. At first, I can't exactly pinpoint what is wrong but I know something isn't right.  I feel too rough...like my edges are sandpaper catching on cotton.  It feels tangly and messy.  The roughness turns into a raw, overexposed feeling.  The noises are too noisy, the silence is too silent, everything is just too much of whatever it is. The world is in hyperdrive and I can't find a good spot to jump in and join.  Then comes the sneakiest part of all, the overcompensation of the rawness - I am muted.  I can laugh, smile, and participate as well as ever but it's forced from beneath what feels like layers of glue.  The muted feeling quickly becomes my bad day.

     I guess if I'm going to be completely honest and transparent here (because if not here then where) my bad days are characterized by an overwhelming sense of sadness.  I will sob rolling, hot tears and mourn for things I can't articulate.  It's no use reminding myself that nothing is actually wrong; I'll just cry all the more thinking I must be really messed up to feel so sad when everything is okay.

     Luckily, mercifully, thankfully I manage to put away my pride and reach out to those I trust the most.  Some of them show up in person, physically guiding me out of the sadness until it sheds completely and I can walk without feeling it's heavy weight.  Some of them send texts of encouragement, assuring me that I'm not alone or broken.  Each of them remind me that if I hang on just a little longer the bad day will pass, as it always does.

Living life in measured time

Days and weeks: I realized I was infertile by the time April 2013 rolled around. I hadn't yet been trying for a year at that point so I couldn't officially get the diagnosis attached to my chart, but I knew it was coming.  It didn't really matter, either, that it hadn't been a year. I was already deeply entrenched in the heartache of infertility. I now lived life slowly counting away cycle days, marking away weekly increments on the calendar to explain my life in terms of before and after ovulation.

Months: On to the next cycle.  That's what we, the inferts, say to ourselves and one another when our period arrives to prove to us what we already know.   Another cycle, another chance, another month (after month, after month, after month).   Each month is its own odd little torture.  It progresses so slowly as I try to fill my time with anything that might keep my mind off of the thing we're working to achieve.   And then it moves on suddenly without me. Boom, another month, another cycle. These things add up before I know it.  Which brings me to my next point....

Years: There have been nearly three of them so far. Oh, folks, those three years. There won't ever be enough time to tell you what they've done to me, to my marriage, to every relationship I have with every person I know.  Things have been good and things have been bad, as life goes, but infertility has been my constant companion.  I either fight against it, to ignore it and live joyously in spite of it, or else it clobbers and overwhelms me, leaving me feeling confused, longing, and irritated.