I don't talk about it often, but I have periodically struggled with depression throughout my life. Middle school was the worst, by far. For a few years I was on various medications to assist me... most of them SSRIs. I don't know if the medications actually worked, the hours of therapy worked, growing up a bit worked, or if my brain just started regulating more normally, but I eventually left that period of depression behind. I honestly don't remember a lot about those days... I was in a sort of fog. That's how I describe it at least, a fog that kind of covers you, weighs on you, and dulls everything around you.
The depression has returned a time or two over the last 16 years. Every time it has returned, I've chosen to wait it out. I feel educated enough to know the signs of serious depression; I feel versed enough in the various treatment methods that I haven't sought medication or therapy for depression again. I have however needed medications for anxiety... that's another beast all together. I was diagnosed with Somatoform Disorder at 25 years old. Anxiety disorders plus infertility make for an interesting cocktail, let me tell you. I'm sure I'm a complete joy to live with. I'm not 100% confident in the diagnosis, as the diagnosis came amidst panic attacks that I haven't had since then, but I do have to admit that I fit many of the criteria even when I am "high functioning". Anxiety is really my beast... depression just comes and goes, in and out, throughout my life.
I can feel myself entering another period of depression. I told Sam so that he can "keep an eye out"... that's step one. You never walk depression alone. Someone has to know, so that if I'm unable to say that this has gone too far, someone else can. I don't think I'll get to that point by any means, I'm not really worried, but it's just wise to let someone know. Plus, it's good for him to know it's me, not him. That we (our marriage, our life) are good... it's simply my brain's inability to process serotonin and dopamine correctly.
That's important when dealing with depression... knowing the science. I think that's part of what has kept me from going deep as an adult. I don't get down on myself. I don't think of myself as weak, or lacking the joy of the Lord, or any of the 8 million things that can make me feel more crappy and pathetic about depression. My brain doesn't process neurotransmitters correctly all the time. It's not my fault, I may not like it, but it's no more my fault than my infertility.
Which brings me around to the trigger of my bout with depression: infertility and the mess it makes. The last time I was struggling with depression was almost 2 full years ago. It was a minor, brief episode, but it centered around the failed IUIs. The more the cycles failed, the farther I sunk. There were certainly other contributing factors... I was unemployed, my husband was gone all. the. time. and I was living with my in-laws or my mom during that time... kind of a perfect storm. My RE offered medication after my third failed IUI. I'm pretty sure she thought I was about to go down in a ball of flames; I knew that I wasn't, so I stayed off meds. I had been on medication for anxiety when I miscarried and I knew that going on antidepressants was a sure fire way to trigger a massive anxiety attack... I was still feeling semi-confident (somehow) that I'd get pregnant and I didn't want to risk another miscarriage on the admittedly small risk.
Since then, I've been pretty okay. Which is kind of surprising. I mean really, when you think about what infertility puts you through... it's kind of a miracle we're walking, talking, functioning humans. I am struggling now though. And I think that centers around inactivity and an empty bank account. I'm frustrated that we've finally chosen a path forward (more on that later), that I finally have a little bit of hope again, and yet we're stuck here, waiting on money. Money that doesn't grow on trees. It's odd really, that THIS would be the time for depression to creep back in. I mean there was a LOT of down time waiting for IVF. Then IVF failed. Then the FET failed. And yet through all of that I held it together. And now this.
Our financial woes center around the house, which in and of itself frustrates me. The house is beautiful and amazing and was NOT an over-investment on our part. We were under budget. We're not struggling to make payment, we're not in over our heads... it's not that. But as anyone can attest, moving costs money, furnishing costs money, renovating costs money... that was a dent, one that I was moderately prepared for... and then the AC unit died. Heaven help me, I was not prepared for that. Not prepared to enter a large hole of debt that we now have to climb out of (again). My financial mentor is in Costa Rica with far more important things going on than reading my blog, but I know if she was here, she'd tell me to "stop the bleed"... not one more thing gets purchased that I do not have the money for in the bank. NO credit cards. I'm working on it... the bleed has been slowed, we're just oozing right now.
But essentially, I'm frustrated and sad. It's beyond annoying/frustrating/depressing that our family requires BIG MONEY to build itself. The lack of movement, the lack of focus, the inability to pull the trigger and go for it is opening up time and space for depression to slink back in. And slink in it has... again, it's a lot like fog. I didn't wake up depressed. Depression kind of oozes into your life, rolling like billows of fog. It's not like I have a permanent rain cloud hanging over my head. I'm happy at times, I laugh, I still enjoy things... the fog just kind of dampens and dulls everything a bit and it requires more time/effort to be happy, laugh, enjoy.
I say all of this not to garner sympathy. Our financial situation is our own, and I'm well aware that we aren't the only ones struggling financially. And I'm not trying to win the Sad Olympics or anything... infertility and depression can go hand in hand. I'm not the first and I won't be the last to struggle with depression along this winding, bumpy, dusty road of infertility. And that's really my point entirely... If you have struggled or are struggling with depression, you're not alone.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
THAT Person
I've often wondered why infertility is a part of my life. When you've tried for three plus years to get pregnant, you have a lot of time to muse. At various times I've wondered about EVERY possibility: population control, a test of faith, a lesson in patience, to prevent some future catastrophe... the brain can go WILD with the options and all that time to wonder. Lately, I've wondered if I'm slated to be that friend... you know the one you go to when X happens. For me, the X, is pregnancy loss or infertility diagnosis.
Hannah's story in the Bible has often been a place of refuge for me in the past few years. I feel like I can really understand her story in ways that I can't really grasp Ruth's or Mary's, you know? First of all, she was so distraught over her situation she wept... I definitely get that. There has been much weeping in the last few years. Secondly, people thought she was crazy (like drunk crazy) and didn't understand her sorrow. I've certainly had conversations and questions over the years which have further proven to me that until you've walked this road, you'll never understand. I get what it feels like to be misunderstood. I get what it feels like when people point out all the other blessings in your life and tell you to be happy (while holding their third child). I understand Hannh's sorrow and her pain. I haven't felt her joy yet, but I imagine my prayer of thanksgiving would be similar.
There's one part of Hannah's story that always gets me... "the Lord had closed her womb." I've often wondered if that's simply Old Testament code for infertile or if it's more literal. Did the Lord literally, intentionally, and specifically close Hannah's womb? Was she a lovely, happy, fertile woman, able to pop out 6-10 babies in her lifetime except for the small detail that the Lord said "no". You can see why this would bug me, I'm sure. I've often wondered why in the world the Lord would prevent Hannah from having a child for so long. Obviously there was a plan, but the details and rationale aren't really spelled out in the text. I find myself pretty peeved about the situation on Hannah's behalf. Now sure, the argument could be made that Samuel had to come along at that exact moment for the plan to come to fruition, but arguments like that just rub me the wrong way sometimes. God is God, and He's all powerful... it could have been both. Hannah could have been fertile, happy, AND have had Samuel at that exact moment in time.
So why give Hannah a small, but powerful role in the story? Why give a minor character, a woman no less, a voice in the Old Testament? I like to think that the Lord knew that thousands of years later, other women with crappy wombs and broken eggs would take comfort in her story. I wonder if Hannah, even within her lifetime, became that go to person. When women from neighboring areas struggled to conceive, did they turn to Hannah for hope, for empathy, for a friend?
I certainly don't think this is the only reason for my infertility or my miscarraiges, and I'm not equating myself with Hannah, but I'm starting to wonder if infertility is a part of my life so that I can be that person for others. You see, when miscarriages occur, people think of me. It doesn't matter if we're related, best friends, old friends, or haven't spoken in 10 years, people reach out looking for advice, for hope, for a shoulder to cry on, for someone who understands. When people get the dreaded "infertile" diagnosis, they come to me. They want help, they want the secret to not murdering their peppy, optimistic husbands, they want advice on dealing with the annoying questions. I'm that person when this type of thing happens.
In a lot of ways, it's an honor. An honor that people would turn to me, an honor that they think of me, and honor that they trust me. It's also a burden, one that I gladly bear, but a burden none the less. As you might imagine, the circles that I'm a member of deal with pregnancy loss more than "normal". But I often feel like a bad luck charm, like women around me are destined to lose their children. On any given day, someone is blogging about the loss of a pregnancy. That's tough. Some days it feels like we're all destined to stay here, in this pit forever. Some days it feels like all of our babies will die. Add in the real life friends who turn to me in these moments and some days, it's overwhelming... some days I feel like I eat, breathe, and sleep pregnancy loss. It's my whole world. Some days, my only thought upon waking up is that I hope no one's baby dies today... literally. Last week I had four different friends in the process of losing a pregnancy. Between real life and the blog world, some days it feels like a miracle if I make it through a week without terrible news. Some days I'm just walking in a perpetual state of sadness, of mourning, of sorrow so far down deep in my soul for the loss that surrounds me.
Last week started off with the news from Suzanne that her FET transfer had failed. I can't explain the sadness I felt with this one. I was prepared for the news. Suzanne had faithfully updated me throughout her two week wait. I knew the chances were slim as she was testing daily, but sometimes, it's the friend's job to hold on to hope because you can't hope for yourself any longer. I've been there. I get that, so I was holding onto hope. My heart broke when she confirmed the negative beta. Anger and frustration at the Lord rose up while tears fell down my face as I stood in my kitchen questioning The Plan and His ways. The week before had been filled with similarly terrible news. Twenty five year-old women shouldn't lose their first pregnancy. I know because it happened to me. It feels wrong every time it happens, and this one was particularly hard. When my precious friend shared her news with me, the memories came rushing back... the joy at that (deceitful) little stick of good news, the confusion over the beta numbers, the fear, the sadness, the mourning.
Sometimes the sadness is deep. There's my own sadness, which in and of itself is enough to swallow me up some days. And then there's the burden of mutual sorrow, of bearing up alongside of a friend, or carrying a little piece of their pain... the burden of abiding with that person through the valley. When your world is filled with infertility and pregnancy loss, it can feel like you simply live in the valley awaiting the next person to need you. But maybe this is the reason, or at least a part of it. Maybe I'm where I am, maybe I've experienced what I have so that I can have empathy rather than sympathy. Maybe infertility and pregnancy loss are a part of my story so that I can say, "I've been there".
Unfortunately, I'm not great at offering support, particularly for first time pregnancy loss. Not because I don't care, but because it's hard to put myself in her shoes... my own shoes have traveled a lot farther and it's nearly impossible to unwalk those miles. My first loss was almost three years ago... time and infertility have changed me. And while the emotions are still there, it's hard for me to put myself back there in Augusta, Ga at the age of 25 when that precious digital test read "pregnant" and I believed everything was right with the world. It's hard to remember a time when I didn't know what I know now. It's hard to remember that I was hysterical over the loss. It's hard to remember that my falling hCG numbers still didn't indicate a miscarriage to me. I was waiting on a miracle. It's hard to remember that thoughts like "just stitch my cervix closed so it can't come out" circled through my head even while the blood spilled out. It's hard to remove the knowledge that I now have, the experience that I now have, the protective shell that I've developed since then. The world I live in is FULL of pregnancy loss. Filled to the absolute brim and spilling over. It's hard to remember a time when I felt like the only person in the world who had suffered like this. I'm sure my friends occasionally need less head knowledge and more heart. Less statistics and more stories. I'm sure they often just want someone to cry with them. I could do that; I really could. But here's the thing, if I start, I may never stop. Because the tears I cry aren't just for her baby, but for my babies, and for all of my friends' babies... and that's a lot of tears.
But like I said, maybe this is my role, maybe this is my purpose. If so, I'm thankful to at least have a purpose. If I could wave a magic wand and end pregnancy loss all together, believe me I would. If I could end all of that pain for you and for me, I would do it in a heartbeat. But since I can't, since my magic wand is broken, all I can say is that I'm here. If you've never lost a pregnancy, I pray your day never comes. I pray you're one of the lucky ones, but if it does, I'll be here. If the horrendous diagnosis of infertility is ever whispered your direction, I'm here. I've been through both. It's an honor and a privilege to stand alongside of you in your darkest moment. This is part of the reason I'm thankful that I'm public with my story, so that other women never think they are alone in their pain. I think many of my infertility and repeat pregnancy loss sisters would agree: the pain is unfathomable, the fear is overwhelming, the sadness is all encompassing, but a friend, someone to understand and say "I've been there" can make all the difference. So if it ever happens, don't suffer alone. Find that person in your life.
Hannah's story in the Bible has often been a place of refuge for me in the past few years. I feel like I can really understand her story in ways that I can't really grasp Ruth's or Mary's, you know? First of all, she was so distraught over her situation she wept... I definitely get that. There has been much weeping in the last few years. Secondly, people thought she was crazy (like drunk crazy) and didn't understand her sorrow. I've certainly had conversations and questions over the years which have further proven to me that until you've walked this road, you'll never understand. I get what it feels like to be misunderstood. I get what it feels like when people point out all the other blessings in your life and tell you to be happy (while holding their third child). I understand Hannh's sorrow and her pain. I haven't felt her joy yet, but I imagine my prayer of thanksgiving would be similar.
There's one part of Hannah's story that always gets me... "the Lord had closed her womb." I've often wondered if that's simply Old Testament code for infertile or if it's more literal. Did the Lord literally, intentionally, and specifically close Hannah's womb? Was she a lovely, happy, fertile woman, able to pop out 6-10 babies in her lifetime except for the small detail that the Lord said "no". You can see why this would bug me, I'm sure. I've often wondered why in the world the Lord would prevent Hannah from having a child for so long. Obviously there was a plan, but the details and rationale aren't really spelled out in the text. I find myself pretty peeved about the situation on Hannah's behalf. Now sure, the argument could be made that Samuel had to come along at that exact moment for the plan to come to fruition, but arguments like that just rub me the wrong way sometimes. God is God, and He's all powerful... it could have been both. Hannah could have been fertile, happy, AND have had Samuel at that exact moment in time.
So why give Hannah a small, but powerful role in the story? Why give a minor character, a woman no less, a voice in the Old Testament? I like to think that the Lord knew that thousands of years later, other women with crappy wombs and broken eggs would take comfort in her story. I wonder if Hannah, even within her lifetime, became that go to person. When women from neighboring areas struggled to conceive, did they turn to Hannah for hope, for empathy, for a friend?
I certainly don't think this is the only reason for my infertility or my miscarraiges, and I'm not equating myself with Hannah, but I'm starting to wonder if infertility is a part of my life so that I can be that person for others. You see, when miscarriages occur, people think of me. It doesn't matter if we're related, best friends, old friends, or haven't spoken in 10 years, people reach out looking for advice, for hope, for a shoulder to cry on, for someone who understands. When people get the dreaded "infertile" diagnosis, they come to me. They want help, they want the secret to not murdering their peppy, optimistic husbands, they want advice on dealing with the annoying questions. I'm that person when this type of thing happens.
In a lot of ways, it's an honor. An honor that people would turn to me, an honor that they think of me, and honor that they trust me. It's also a burden, one that I gladly bear, but a burden none the less. As you might imagine, the circles that I'm a member of deal with pregnancy loss more than "normal". But I often feel like a bad luck charm, like women around me are destined to lose their children. On any given day, someone is blogging about the loss of a pregnancy. That's tough. Some days it feels like we're all destined to stay here, in this pit forever. Some days it feels like all of our babies will die. Add in the real life friends who turn to me in these moments and some days, it's overwhelming... some days I feel like I eat, breathe, and sleep pregnancy loss. It's my whole world. Some days, my only thought upon waking up is that I hope no one's baby dies today... literally. Last week I had four different friends in the process of losing a pregnancy. Between real life and the blog world, some days it feels like a miracle if I make it through a week without terrible news. Some days I'm just walking in a perpetual state of sadness, of mourning, of sorrow so far down deep in my soul for the loss that surrounds me.
Last week started off with the news from Suzanne that her FET transfer had failed. I can't explain the sadness I felt with this one. I was prepared for the news. Suzanne had faithfully updated me throughout her two week wait. I knew the chances were slim as she was testing daily, but sometimes, it's the friend's job to hold on to hope because you can't hope for yourself any longer. I've been there. I get that, so I was holding onto hope. My heart broke when she confirmed the negative beta. Anger and frustration at the Lord rose up while tears fell down my face as I stood in my kitchen questioning The Plan and His ways. The week before had been filled with similarly terrible news. Twenty five year-old women shouldn't lose their first pregnancy. I know because it happened to me. It feels wrong every time it happens, and this one was particularly hard. When my precious friend shared her news with me, the memories came rushing back... the joy at that (deceitful) little stick of good news, the confusion over the beta numbers, the fear, the sadness, the mourning.
Sometimes the sadness is deep. There's my own sadness, which in and of itself is enough to swallow me up some days. And then there's the burden of mutual sorrow, of bearing up alongside of a friend, or carrying a little piece of their pain... the burden of abiding with that person through the valley. When your world is filled with infertility and pregnancy loss, it can feel like you simply live in the valley awaiting the next person to need you. But maybe this is the reason, or at least a part of it. Maybe I'm where I am, maybe I've experienced what I have so that I can have empathy rather than sympathy. Maybe infertility and pregnancy loss are a part of my story so that I can say, "I've been there".
Unfortunately, I'm not great at offering support, particularly for first time pregnancy loss. Not because I don't care, but because it's hard to put myself in her shoes... my own shoes have traveled a lot farther and it's nearly impossible to unwalk those miles. My first loss was almost three years ago... time and infertility have changed me. And while the emotions are still there, it's hard for me to put myself back there in Augusta, Ga at the age of 25 when that precious digital test read "pregnant" and I believed everything was right with the world. It's hard to remember a time when I didn't know what I know now. It's hard to remember that I was hysterical over the loss. It's hard to remember that my falling hCG numbers still didn't indicate a miscarriage to me. I was waiting on a miracle. It's hard to remember that thoughts like "just stitch my cervix closed so it can't come out" circled through my head even while the blood spilled out. It's hard to remove the knowledge that I now have, the experience that I now have, the protective shell that I've developed since then. The world I live in is FULL of pregnancy loss. Filled to the absolute brim and spilling over. It's hard to remember a time when I felt like the only person in the world who had suffered like this. I'm sure my friends occasionally need less head knowledge and more heart. Less statistics and more stories. I'm sure they often just want someone to cry with them. I could do that; I really could. But here's the thing, if I start, I may never stop. Because the tears I cry aren't just for her baby, but for my babies, and for all of my friends' babies... and that's a lot of tears.
But like I said, maybe this is my role, maybe this is my purpose. If so, I'm thankful to at least have a purpose. If I could wave a magic wand and end pregnancy loss all together, believe me I would. If I could end all of that pain for you and for me, I would do it in a heartbeat. But since I can't, since my magic wand is broken, all I can say is that I'm here. If you've never lost a pregnancy, I pray your day never comes. I pray you're one of the lucky ones, but if it does, I'll be here. If the horrendous diagnosis of infertility is ever whispered your direction, I'm here. I've been through both. It's an honor and a privilege to stand alongside of you in your darkest moment. This is part of the reason I'm thankful that I'm public with my story, so that other women never think they are alone in their pain. I think many of my infertility and repeat pregnancy loss sisters would agree: the pain is unfathomable, the fear is overwhelming, the sadness is all encompassing, but a friend, someone to understand and say "I've been there" can make all the difference. So if it ever happens, don't suffer alone. Find that person in your life.
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