Pick Up The Phone

I’ve had this overwhelming fear lately. This thought that haunts me.

A voice in the back of my head telling me that I will be alone and childless for the rest of my life. That the people I love will always hurt me and leave, and that I will never realize my dream of becoming a mother.

I recognize that such absolutes are absurd, and that allowing these thoughts to sneak into my brain is preposterous, but...

I can't stop them. They stalk me now. At night. When I'm alone. When I have no distractions.

I find myself sobbing, because I am so afraid that this is my life.

And while I love my life, I want more. I want so much more. I don't want this to be my forever life. I don't want this to be all there is.

I want more.

And I'm so afraid I'll never have it.

I am a girl who thrives off of strength. It is infinitely important to me to be strong enough, capable enough, optimistic enough.

Clearly it is important to me that I just be enough.

I don’t like admitting when I’m struggling, and I don’t relish needing to reach out for help.

From anyone. For any reason.

But something needs to change. Since my failed cycle in July, I feel like I have been forcing myself to move forward. I’ve been taking on distractions as one might collect baseball cards. Saying “yes” to every invitation, and seeking out new adventures left and right. I’ve been trying to force myself not to acknowledge the reality of my infertility and what it means for my life. I have smiled and laughed and moved forward; pretending like I was strong enough. Like the last 2 years haven’t kicked me down harder than I ever would have imagined possible.

I’ve tried to place my hope in this upcoming frozen cycle as well. Tried to combat the voices that now whisper to me how very real the possibility of another failure is. Tried to feign the same optimism I had for the last round.

But at night, those other thoughts creep in. The ones that bring the tears to my eyes and tell me that this is all there is. That there will never be more. That there is nothing left to hope for.

It’s been two weeks since I mentioned looking into therapy, and since then; I have effectively avoided picking up the phone. I’ve told myself that I just needed more time, or that my hormones were still regulating – pushing my moods to this crazy extreme of fake happiness and real devastation. I’ve pretended that with time, everything would go back to normal. That I would go back to normal. I haven’t wanted to admit that I was struggling; it felt like admitting that infertility was winning.

And the last thing I ever want is for infertility to win.

This is my life after all, and I will be damned if I allow this to break me. I’ve been through worse. I’ve survived harder. I can survive this.

Except that, I’m not so sure I have been surviving. As the tears creep up when no one is looking, I find myself wondering if I will ever survive this. If I will ever recover.

If I will ever feel like me again.

Because right now, vacillating between to the two extremes of emotions; everything else feels dead.

Still, picking up the phone, making an appointment, (in my mind – admitting defeat); it was all a suffocating prospect. I have always been a fan of therapy. I have always touted its benefits. I have always recommended it first thing to any of my friends who were ever even kind of struggling.

So, why was it so hard for me to make this decision? Why did I suddenly feel like needing help meant that I couldn’t handle this? That I wasn’t strong enough, capable enough, and optimistic enough.

Why did I feel like it would make me a failure?

As I was stressing over this decision (feeling as though talking to someone would mean admitting that infertility was breaking me) one of my fake internet friends (she says, with her tongue firmly planted in her cheek) pointed out “Infertility isn’t breaking you, your issues with your mother are breaking you.”

Ha! I literally laughed out loud. Both because I knew she was trying to make me smile, and because I kind of wished she was right. If I was still struggling with issues over my past and my family and that’s why I needed therapy now, I think I would be able to justify it in my head somehow. That’s the past. It’s my childhood. And most people have issues from their childhood they still need to deal with; mostly because our little kid brains can’t effectively process it all and we end up with a jumbled mess of crap by the time we’re adults.

But struggling with this? It just feels like not knowing how to cope with life. It feels like not being enough. Life is hard for everyone. We all get thrown curveballs. I should be able to handle this. I should be able to deal without fighting back tears every day.

I should be able to bounce back.

But I’m not. I need help. I need guidance. I need someone to teach me how to be me again.

And so, yesterday (after a rough 2 days that involved more tears than I even have explanations for), I picked up the phone. I had hoped to find someone who specialized in infertility, but unfortunately there are only 3 in town and none were covered by my insurance. Instead, I opted for the youngest woman I could find (still about 15 years older than me), hoping that I could at least feel like it was someone who could relate on some level. Hoping that it was someone who I wouldn’t feel anxious explaining my broken pieces to.

Hoping that it was someone who could understand.

The call lasted all of 5 minutes, and they got me in for an appointment this evening. Loo joked that they must have heard the word “infertility” and thought “Get this girl in here STAT!” I wasn’t expecting an appointment so soon at all, but it probably is a good thing. Less time to talk myself out of it. Less time to think about it. Less time to convince myself that I’m fine.

Even though I know I’m not.

I picked up the phone, and I have my first therapy appointment tonight. I'm counting on it being a rough one, but the first time always is. All that matters right now is the fact that I picked up the phone.

I am struggling.

I am breaking.

I am hurting.

I need help.

Help to figured out how to put the pieces back together.

And help to find myself again.