People keep talking to me about EMDR and endometriosis and trauma and infertility – sending me excerpts from strangers’ blogs, links to Facebook groups, and on and on and…
I want to believe they have good intentions, but I’m not sure I can manage it. Or I’m not sure their definition of “good intentions” is the same as my own.
I’m tired – of thinking about any of it, of being a body or a mind but not a person. Never a body and a mind. Never together, never whole, never situated all at once in one place.
I’ve had oral thrush for three months. I got a prescription for lidocaine mouthwash today, was told to get a family doctor, sit through another intake, hope for the best. Figure out why it’s sticking around like this. I think I’ve got that answer. I’d be stupid if I didn’t assume.
“Tired” is maybe incorrect. Maybe an understatement. I’m exhausted, no matter how much I sleep, no matter how quickly I pass out in front of another crappy true crime documentary on Netflix.
I get a server error every time I hit “publish” here and I lose a bit of what I’ve written.
Maybe that’s a hint too.
I was going to make one of those “this is what last month sounded like” posts for September, because that is apparently the only kind of post I write anymore (except on tumblr, where I talk too much), but uh:
it was kind of just “August plus Pete Seeger.”
I did see the best video on youtube, though, and I want to remember it forever.
I can’t predict how this year will end. I can’t predict how this week will end. I can’t predict how I’ll feel an hour from now.
What I do know is that I am packing my house – shoving books in old paper boxes, filing records in carriers not meant to hold them, driving bag after bag of clothes that no longer fit to the donation drop – and after all that I’ll be painting and cleaning and moving into the garage behind my parents’ house until I have my own place again.
I also know that I spent more than a year on drugs that ruined my hormones and made made me gain (a lot) of weight. At the end of February, despite everything, I had an early miscarriage, and in April I had first the “typical” endometriosis surgery, and two days after my birthday I had my left ovary removed. The only one I had left.
Have I written about this? About the holes the disease has eaten through my peritoneum? About being menopausal at 32? About being at work with a newly pregnant coworker, with a woman who has a brand new granddaughter, with a supervisor whose son was just born?
I don’t think I have. I don’t know what to say. Jealousy isn’t the right word for it. It’s just difficult to be happy for someone about something I will never, ever have for myself.