It’s a Sunday meltdown!

BLARGH! In my obsession with researching essential oils that are safe for IVF, reading other women’s blogs about infertility, and trying to learn about what hormones DO in my body and what’s being introduced to me for IVF treatment, I’m overwhelmed. I read this beautiful post in Elle magazine this morning and I haven’t been the same. I totally melted down before 8:30a.m. — we hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet.

If you go ahead and read that article, please don’t say that I didn’t warn you that it will hit you in all the feels.

It’s not that its message was whining about not being a mom-which-was-everything-I-ever-dreamed-of. It was that the author talked about the limbo she’s in between the friends who have kids and those who don’t want kids. It’s that she is 35 and worrying about her chances of getting pregnant (I’m 39). It was the description of the box of drugs that got delivered to her house that took over a part of her fridge and a closet (something that will be getting delivered to me next week). It was the descriptions of what the injections did to her. And the emphasis on how slow and laboring the process is. Laboring. And THEN one would get to be pregnant — and ALL of THAT fun begins.

When I was doing a lot of deliberating about our next steps, I realized I was going to have to give up A LOT to enter this phase on life that feels right in some dark recess of my soul. We have a small house. One that’s so small that right now I’m biting off Mr J’s head because of the CLUTTER he leaves around — even though he’s so helpful in lots of ways. It’s a challenge to even get a Christmas tree because of the furniture shuffling that has to be done to accommodate even a small one. I often don’t decorate for Christmas because it’s totally overwhelming, since he doesn’t really get too into it. It’s just obligation. (We wrote obligatory Christmas cards this year.)

I’ll give up my art studio/sacred space, too. All of my healing books when I was studying energy healing and integrative medicine. All of my art supplies and Zentangle supplies for when I teach that. That’s all going to have to go into the downstairs “man town” that my first husband built for himself and now is the lair for my super-hero-loving, PS4-gaming hubby. Did I mention he’s a packrat? He moved in to this house 5 years ago and still some things are not unpacked. The downstairs is cold and sometimes smells like cat pee. There’s no light. There are three fucking couches that just need to GTFO because I burst.

What sucks is that I have so many interests and artsy hobbies that I’ve amassed STUFF too! And all of that stuff is in a small closet.

Getting a bigger house or adding on to this one is a need. However, I’m the one who earns the highest income in this family, and though I’d hoped that he would’ve been earning more by this point at his job that he started 3 1/2 years ago, he’s not. So there’s that too.

Feeling my burdens?

Oh the darkness. Oh the pain. If you knew me in real life, you would not see this. This is the rawness of me. I yearn to write about the light within — it’s huge and it’s there. Today’s not that day though.

This morning, I cried in bed to Mr J with the grief of how enormous what I’m taking on is. Both of us are taking it on, yes, but it’s my body. It’s a huge thing to ask of anyone to do.

BIG.

I stayed in my PJs all day. We wrote cards. I watched Blacklist and moved my contacts from a hand-written address book to iCloud. Tonight, we’ll finish up Stranger Things and I’ll have a dinner of left-over lentil stew, chased with some delicious prunes. HAHAHA!

I’ve gotta share the drawings of my conversations with my Fallopian tubes that I did before surgery.

Peace out, pigeons 🙂

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