I am still trying to battle the despair, and it's a struggle. Even if I lift my mood temporarily through dance, or music, or exercise, in a matter of hours (at most) I am my same depressed self. One can only fight so many hours a day. It's exhausting. And yet I told my internist/mentor (who I hope is having a wonderful, warm, blog-free vacation right now) that I don't want to take an SSRI. Partly it's the side affects -- I refuse to be somnolent and weight gain is absolutely out of the question. But more than that -- I want to get through this myself. I need to believe in my ability to overcome this feeling. My body is defective (thanks, genetics!) and I have no control over that which is most important to me. I'm not even remotely connected to this Operation InFutility. I want at least to control my emotions. Can I have that small corner of control? Taking medication would mean surrendering. If I survive this alone, it will be because I clawed my way out. Not because I let medication modify my neurotransmitter chemistry.
It's funny, though. I have no problem taking levothyroxine to replace my perpetually-out-to-lunch thyroid gland, or amlodipine and losartan to control my blood pressure, and while I detest it I (relatively) faithfully take my OCP. I suppose the difference is that I know that without my levothyroxine I could end up in a myxedema coma, and if I don't take my antihypertensives I will end up with left ventricular hypertrophy and diastolic dysfunction and possibly hemorrhagic infarcts, and that estrogen in girls my age has bone and heart benefits. I won't die without an SSRI. I might just feel miserable. I know exactly why I am miserable and I know that it can't get much worse. Expectations of failure cannot disappoint.
Or am I just buying into the stigma of mental illness? I do believe mental illness should be respected equally with physical illness. It so often has worse consequences (at least among my patient population) and it is the result of chemical imbalances in the brain, not weakness of character.
Could I argue it as a case of severity? Were I suicidal or endangering patients I would likely be far more inclined to acquiesce.
Enough, though, about my conundrum.
I wish my mother and grandmother understood what it means to go through this. The other day, Mama told me I am "too preoccupied" with infertility and babies, etc. Would she tell a cancer patient he or she was too preoccupied with his illness? Would she be surprised when that person was disappointed when four rounds of chemo failed? (Yes, I understand COMPLETELY that IVF and chemo have very different stakes and that my life itself is not threatened, nor my physical health. I am very grateful for this and I am NOT trying to compare the two!) Would she tell a diabetic not to think about his or her glucose, and which foods he ought not eat, and whether he had foot sores?
This is what being infertile means: It means watching all your friends have children, feeling envious, and feeling guilty for your jealousy. It means wondering if your husband will leave you for someone who can have children. It means trying to keep a mask when asked if you have children, and trying to find a neutral answer but wishing you could say "No, I don't and I am angry and hurt and upset about it!" It means planning your career when you know you would only work part-time if you have children, but you have no idea if the children will even come. It means explaining to your grandmother that no, adoption doesn't just happen overnight and there isn't an overflowing supply of pregnant women waiting to give up their babies, and it takes more than just finding a lawyer. It means an intrinsic part of the life cycle is on hold.
It means that unlike your friends who say "when," you say "if" I have children. A two-letter word makes all the difference.
Anyway, my in-laws are in town and I am supposed to wake them from their nap. Happy Christmas to all who will be celebrating, and a Happy and Healthy secular New Year to everyone! May 2013 be a fertile one!
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