What Comes Up.

I was a painfully different kid. There were many things, both inside and out, that set me starkly apart from the kids around me. Or maybe it was more like the outside differences were such that I believed concretely that my insides must be terribly weird and corroded and nothing at all like the insides of my classmates. We were poor in a very wealthy community. We were members of a minority religious group that required us to abstain from normal kid things in very overt ways – birthday cupcakes, the Pledge of Allegiance, those blobby alien-looking turkeys you make out of handprints for Thanksgiving, Christmas as a whole, etc. I was an unattractive child with orange hair the color of traffic cones that jutted out at odd angles, big giant gaps in my teeth and sticky-outy ears about which my mother delighted in commenting that when I was born she didn’t know if I would walk or fly. But probably the most toxic difference was that instead of the safety and stability I saw in the homes of my peers, my home was rocked by violence, addiction and mental illness that twisted us all into terrifying unnatural shapes, shapes we hid from the rest of the world.

I remember watching the beautiful blonde girls, those precious porcelain creatures with their clean nails and their pearl-drop teeth, like a hungry urchin with my face pressed up against the glass of the finest bakery. They were like a different species, fairies to my scurrying, scaly goblin-self. Their hair fell in soft waves around their faces and their fingers were never chewed and bloody and their clothes were all brand name and their dolls stayed pristine and glamorous. Their rooms were pink and frilly and not shared by necessity with an older sister who appeared to hate them.

There were these twins, just absolutely the most lovely little long-eyelashed, full-lipped little girls you ever saw, who wore exclusively pink or lavender so that people could tell them apart. Early on in grade school, before the lines really got drawn and the children started to get cruel, when I was still being invited to sleepovers at the homes of the beautiful girls, I went to one at the twins’ house. I think they each had their own playroom, although I could be remembering that wrong in the overwhelming haze of loveliness and luxury and sickly pink-or-lavender-tinted envy that seized me like a vice grip. I clearly recall the multitude of table-top Ataris, and that I played Frogger timidly in a corner until somebody ripped it out of my hands. They had a Christmas tree that reached up to the sky-lit open-beam rafters of their two story living room. Their parents were young and lovely and playful, lenient and sober. Safe. I was so disoriented that I faked a stomach ache and had my mother come pick me up after the girls went to bed. She took me home to our fear and poverty and insanity and cramped apartment airlessness, which were all blessedly familiar and normal.

For many years of my childhood I put myself to sleep every night with a careful inventory of all the things that were wrong about me. From my toes all the way up to the top of my head I would count them out – 1) Weird bunyony feet. 2) Knock-kneed. 3) Bow-legged. 4) Fat stomach. 5) Little white-head acne all over my arms that I compulsively picked at. 6) Ugly. 7) Gapped teeth. 8) Big nose. 9) Giant ears. 10) Scary orange hair. They were my rosary beads, my litany, my way of understanding and explaining a world that consistently rejected me. It must be these things that make other kids torture me, that make my stepfather punch holes through doors and leave bruises on us, that make my mother disappear into fluid melancholy or rage. That made sense. It was compassable, I could get my chewed-fingered little hands around it. They were also proof of the terribly shameful thing that cringed and quivered inside of me, this difference, this wrongness. This me.

I’ve been thinking about this stuff for the past few days, as I’ve waited to learn whether or not the heroic amount of time, money and ovary-mutilating effort we expended this month will result in a pregnancy. I’ve thought about it as I watch women all around me, bearing and rearing babies that they have somehow managed to conceive and carry to term. I’ve wondered how many of those beautiful porcelain girls have children now, how many got pregnant without difficulty, exactly when they wanted, or maybe even accidentally – although never at a bad time. I’ve pictured them looking into the faces of children who look like them, beautiful and finely carved like ivory figurines, pictured them seeing there the reflection and culmination of all their loveliness and rightness and safety. I’ve pondered the diabolical fucking mystery of why all these women can do this thing, this elusive, ubiquitous, fact-of-life thing that I can’t seem to do to save my life. And I cannot figure it out.

This afternoon we found out that I am not pregnant.

The urge to collapse into all my old understandings is tremendous. I am infertile because I am not good enough. I am infertile because I am overweight. I am infertile because we waited too long because I was flaky and took 12 years to get through school and couldn’t find paid work after and am terrible with money and irresponsible about everything and just generally an awful, useless person. I am infertile because this wrongness, this shamefully terrible, cringing, quivering thing that inhabits my deepest places is so toxic that no life can take hold there. I am infertile because I am me.

Don’t bother telling me that this is irrational, because I know perfectly well that it is. I am a fucking therapist, for pete’s sake. I work almost exclusively with children who believe that their insides are rotten and unlovable because of trauma, and I am encyclopedically aware of the theory. But this is what comes up when month after month, year after year I fail to conceive. What comes up is ugly and brittle and impervious to grownup reason. What comes up is old and barbed like prison wire. In the face of the perfectly deadly logic of self-hatred, all I can do is write it out and try to move forward.

Just to clarify, although I believed that my sister hated me when we were kids, we are incredibly close as adults. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t hate me now. She is very supportive and hasn’t tried to flush my head in the toilet in a really long time. Years, even.

Ferret Hormones, Walking Egg Cartons and Vaginal Fishing Floats. Or, When Infertility Gets Weird.

I’m always tempted to apologize after a long absence from the blogging, but then I remember that this was supposed to be some kind of therapeutic tool, and if I were my own therapist I’d have to ask me a whole bunch of probing questions and try to explore the deeper context of my apology, e.g. some kind of lingering repressed guilt from my mother or something, and frankly it’s the weekend and I’m burnt out and I don’t really fucking care where my lingering repressed guilt comes from on a Friday night. So there.

I guess I haven’t had much processing to do lately. I mean, the journey goes on and uterine hilarity continues to ensue, as well as tears and sadness and frustration sometimes. People around me get knocked up and I don’t, and I have a really hard time with that no matter what kind of evolved zen mantra-mumbling place I’m in. It sucks. But I think I’m feeling a bit more longitudinal about it right now.

Last month we went in to see the Doc, who described a truly appalling process in which I would be flooded with hormones (whose hormones? People hormones? Animal hormones? Scary GMO robot hormones? I don’t know. Seriously. Whose hormones?) over the course of 7 to 10 days that cause my ovaries to go into massive superproduction and pop like 7 eggs, and then the “trigger shot” (I believe that there is a genuine market need for less horrifying names for all this shit) makes them release. And then I have like quintuplets or something. He laid it all out and it was daunting and awful and jaw-droppingly expensive, so we filed it in the “nuclear option” bin and went for the far less costly and upsetting IUI.

And it was in general far less upsetting. It hurt like a &%$#@ because of my old friend endometriosis, but my husband was there and made me laugh with his little pep talk to his sperm on their way in – “Alright you guys, remember what we talked about! Get in there!” The only really upsetting part was later in the evening, after I had gone directly from the doctor’s office to a staff party and finally got around to going in the bathroom and taking out what Dr. S had described as “just a little plug to keep the sperm where they should be”. As I’d had my legs up with a sheet draped over them when he was finishing the job, I did not see it go in and was picturing some kind of dainty little tampon-shaped thing. So I was utterly aghast when I pulled out what looked like a small nautical buoy the size of my palm wrapped in a plastic bag tied at the top with dental floss. Like a gods damn fishing float. Holy crap. Have you guys seen these things? I was so grossed out I finally had to tell the women I was hanging out with after a couple of glasses of wine. One of my staff is from the Midwest and when I described the abominable thing she cheerfully informed me that those are what they use when they inseminate cows. So, you know, that happened.

And as it turned out, it didn’t work. I will point out here, as I refrained from pointing out to Dr. Pushypants, that when I had so rashly taken all that pesky control over my vajayjay and did a home insemination, I managed to knock myself up on the first try. Ahem. Who’s counting?

So we moved on to the nuclear option. A week of shooting up ferret hormones or whatever the fuck they are, then becoming a giant walking egg carton. My husband was totally mortified when I told him we’d be doing it at home, and would he please do the actual poking part because I didn’t think I could cause myself that kind of pain. Once I tried to give myself a bikini wax but wussed out and couldn’t go through with it, so I had to sit in a bathtub full of Coke to get all the glue off. True story. But he cowboy’d up and watched the instructional video twice and scrubbed down the entire coffee table and went to work, albeit with significant anxiety. I kept offering to do it myself but he declared that it was his part of the process and that it was the least he could do. He did a great job and only made me bleed a little bit. It was a rough week physically and I felt like absolute arse toward the end. If I lay down on my stomach it felt like I was lying on two little golf balls where my ovaries used to be.

Today I went back in for the IUI. On the way over my sister and I were on the phone cracking up about getting a buoy in my hooey. It hurt even more like a &*%$@# this time because my entire pelvic region is all sore and bloated and unnaturally egged out like an Easter basket on steroids. Also, my doc uses these horrible old-fashioned metal things to pry me open. They’ve got all knobs and dials and stuff. One time when I was waiting for him to come in the room I peeked into the drawer I’d seen him take one out of and it looked like Steampunk Gynecology in there. Fucking horrifying.

So anyway, that’s the catch-up. I think the Catbox might be pretty bad this time around, since we’ve just sunk upwards of $2500 into my mysteriously dysfunctional lady place and there’s a little, you know, pressure in that. I’m going to try to keep up better with the writing so that I don’t fall back into the bad place.

Here we go…