Counsel This!

I haven't had much to write lately. Actually, that's not entirely true.

Not much has transpired, but, as most of you know, I could easily write volumes about my adventures clipping my toenails or sitting on my porch doing nothing at all. There are always voices in my head I could write about. In the last week a friend of mine, who happens to be a travel agent, invited me to fly up to Anchorage, Alaska with her in a couple of weeks and take a week-long cruise. As much as I want to do this, I just don't have the time right now with work. I wish I could. Instead, I look forward to our annual girls' camping trip in the next couple of months.

I'm in the midst of another severe emotional slump. I believe that once again I am soaking in a pool of female hormones wreaking havoc on my brain. I feel a heavy, dark cloud looming over me and can't shake it off. It will recede in the coming week, but I must live in its shadow for the time being. I did a 45-minute exercise video today and am fighting off the sick, pounding headache that plagues me these days every time I exert myself. It hardly seems worth it, but I really needed the endorphins today. I turned on the television this morning to watch the Today Show and watched part of a special on infertility and women my age before my heart shattered. I had to turn it off. I went on to do some laundry and clean the kitchen. As I mindlessly stripped the sheets off Erik's bed this morning and tossed the colorful ball of fabric into the laundry basket, I paused long enough to look out the window. It suddenly came to me how incredibly amazing or unbelievably stupid it is that we have gone this long without any sort of counseling about what has happened in the last year. I definitely feel like the bulk of my grieving is over but that I am holding small scraps of it in my hands I don't know what to do with. I just stuff them in my pockets like old tissues so they are out of sight and go about my day. Am I really better? Or have I successfully anesthetized myself emotionally? There is a numbness in me that wasn't there before. My personal relationships are suffering because of it. I am so very numb.

There are people who have gone through much less who have required some sort of therapy. People who have lost pets. People who saw some sort of tragedy unfold on the nightly news. People who have anxiety attacks choosing a fabric softener.

My child is mentally retarded, and I just go about my business whistling as if I'm Mary Freaking Poppins. At this rate, a blood vessel will eventually give in my head and fell me like a giant, lipstick-wearing sequoia. Brian will come home and find me in a pile in front of the washing machine.

I can just see it now (cue harp music).

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Nancy, Reclusive Blogger and Mother of Dark Humor, Dead at 36
by THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

Nancy, best known for her brutally honest, rambling weblog, died suddenly Wednesday. She was 36 years of age.

Born in 1970, Nancy, the once gregarious and flamboyant 1990 world record holder and three-time world champion upside-down margarita drinker, was seldom seen outside her ranch house on the outskirts of town, although she was sometimes spotted at special ed parent group quietly clutching a cup of black coffee. Once dubbed "America's Favorite Party Girl," in her later years she adopted a strict lifestyle as an eccentric recluse, turning down invitations to social functions and instead shutting herself in her home and ordering numerous pizzas. She enjoyed working crossword puzzles, writing angry letters, and cursing using filthy French words. Those closest to her reported they often found her in front of the television watching Dawson's Creek and drinking cheap red wine, even though she admitted having seen every episode at least four times, with Gracie, the feral cat she kept as a pet, curled in her lap and growling at unwelcome visitors. Her home was in its usual immaculate condition when she died except for a handful of dryer sheets strewn around her body after a major blood vessel, weakened by decades of constant low-grade irritation, ruptured in her brain, killing her instantly. Brian, her devoted husband of 6 years, told the press Thursday that she appeared uncharacteristically peaceful and wore a half-smile on her face when he discovered her Wednesday in their laundry room with her beloved basket of various cleaning products by her side.
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(harp music fades)

The last time we tried counseling was when Erik was small and our world was filled with sleep deprivation, hopelessness, and worry. And that was BEFORE the diagnosis. We knew there was something wrong with life in general, but we didn't know what. As you can imagine, that was not fun. The sessions were not a positive experience, and I came out looking like a complete horse's ass, as the therapist seemed to enjoy attacking me like a soft-spoken pit bull. However, I have some pretty serious issues about children, childbearing, motherhood, and just being a woman rapidly approaching 40. Aging has never bothered me until the concept of childbearing was introduced. I'm angry because the joy has been stripped from a lot of being a woman in general. I'm angry because I will never again tell someone who is expecting a child that things will turn out just fine. Why would I? They sure as hell didn't turn out fine for us. As hard as I try, I still feel like I have failed. I don't want to try again. I don't want more kids. And it kills me because I WAS BANKING ON THE ASSUMPTION THAT THINGS WOULD TURN OUT FINE. Now what? I'm not sure.

All grieving aside, I just want to find PEACE.

I am haunted by many what ifs these days. What if I had stayed pregnant years ago? What happened to those little souls? I don't really mourn them anymore, but I just wonder how they would have turned out. What was wrong with them? Were they deformed? It doesn't matter. You see, I was enthusiastically advised to try again, as things would turn out just fine. After all, everybody and their dog has miscarriages! I was worrying about nothing! I put my heart and soul into trying again, trusting in the words I heard from them all.

Things didn't turn out fine.

Not at all.

Color me a little pissed off.

I'm afraid of going to my grave with regrets. Do any of us make it without them? I never thought about it until now, and I'm scared. I want to get old gracefully and with the least regrets possible. I have discovered that this whole process entails a lot of side effects and byproducts that must be either ignored or dealt with. I like to deal with things.

On top of everything, I feel myself in this endless cycle of therapy, work, and sleep. I know that things will change in the fall when Erik goes to preschool. I just want something different. I want progress. I want peace with my life.

* UPDATE: I now have the name of a counselor who specializes in grief and will give her a call.