By: Lex Jacobson
When you mix mental health issues with fertility hormone treatments, sometimes you get a bit of a mess, which equals me. I imagine hormone treatments to get pregnant aren’t nice for anyone who has to do it, but I really feel as though it’s poking at old wounds. Crazy wounds.
I really wanted to make an omelet the other day, so chopped up some onion, garlic, bell peppers, and mushrooms and grated some cheese. I went back into the fridge to get the eggs. We had no eggs. I don’t usually lose my head, but I got so angry I almost punched a hole through the kitchen wall. Devon came out of the bedroom to find out what was going on and once she realized I was mad, she held up her hands so that I could use them as punching targets. When I wouldn’t hit her, she called me a pussy and I cried. Yup – crazy wounds.
My depression was never the tearful or weepy type of depression. In months and months of living in different psych wards, I rarely cried. I was numb more than anything else. It was an internal battle that I kept very private and couldn’t stand the thought of showing weakness through tears. So the effects of fertility drugs are tough to deal with. And I know that this is absolutely nothing compared to what I’m going to have to face when I’m pregnant with all of those different hormones, so this should be a good test, if nothing else.
This whole process – fertility drugs or not – is crazy. My days are filled with peeing in cups, taking my temperature at 4:00 am, obsessing over calendars, cervical mucous, and how the opening of my cervix feels. Then add the negative results month after month. This process is not for the weak (nor for the poor, but that’s another story for another day).
For now, I just need to go through with the insemination this week and remember to stock the fridge before I lose my shit again.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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