I'm pooped.

I was fully prepared for the new relationship I would have with baby poop once Pepper arrived. In fact, I expected to be constantly talking about Pepper's poop, assessing Pepper's poop, and just generally obsessed with all of her heiny products. Having the expectation prepared me for it and helped me accept it. What I did not prepare for was the other poop I would be confronted with and how this other poop would slowly wear me down and threaten my fragile sanity.

When Husband and I got home from a long day out and about, we found the remnants of a Macaroni n' Cheese box distributed about the downstairs. Cheese powder was strategically ground into the carpet. One of our Jack Russell Terriers, Wilson, had discovered the box of food stuffs that I had neglected to remember to bring to a local food pantry. Apparently, Wilson had also found an old packet of seasoning to make Thai Fried Rice. Cleaning cheese powder out of the carpet would turn out to be the easiest part of the clean up job.

The fallout began when Wilson puked in our bed at around 2 am that night. The next morning, I came downstairs to find trails of diarrhea all over the living room carpet. I quickly discovered that it is very difficult to hold a one month old baby and scrub runny dog poop out of synthetic fibers. Pepper didn't like it very much either, actually. I finally gave up, sat down on the couch, held my baby and my nose, and quietly wondered if other mothers are thrown into a spiraling depression by the thought of their baby some day crawling around on carpet infested with petrified dog diarrhea. It certainly seems possible.

One down, so many to go...

Just finished one final. I have one more final to go, plus a paper. I feel so close and yet so far.

I am having almost daily emotional breakdowns which are just fun for the whole family.

We had a scheduled meeting to interview our preferred and highly recommended doula. She never showed and when called professed to forgetting. We rescheduled for today, despite my husband's legitimate doubts about her at this point. I am unwilling to give up on her, but am unsure why. Lunacy does that.

Risk versus Sacrifice

Finals are finally done. And while I still have 3 papers to write by the end of January, the end of exams for the semester still relieves a significant amount of stress. I made a fairly successful attempt to focus on studying for finals and not obsess over all things fetus related. So now with the completion of finals, I have totally resumed by previous obsession.

Firstly, at 15 weeks, I am neither "showing" nor do I feel any movement. I know this is perfectly normal for a "first" timer, but I worry nonetheless. Maybe the baby is already dead, maybe I am not growing on target and the baby is about to die, maybe there is something seriously wrong that means death will occur shortly after birth. I think you get the picture. When it comes to potential baby death scenarios, I can be pretty creative.

Then there's my meds. For the most part, I feel confident in my psychiatrist's decision to keep me on 100mg of Ser0que1 and 100mg of Z010ft during the pregnancy. Ser0que1 is a schedule C drug that is contraindicated for pregnant or nursing women, but we opted to take the risk. And when I say "we", I mean I opted that the baby take that risk. Right now, that sounds pretty fucking lame. Sometimes, the alternatives sound quite a bit less selfish. For instance, let's assume that without the Ser0que1, I launch into a full blown depressive episode where owing to the lack of Ser0que1 sleep is downright impossible for at least a month or so. The impending self injury and real live insanity would require hospitalization or simply tying my arms and legs down to our bed. Let's be honest, that's the kind a sacrifice a real mother would make. Not this pansy sacrifice claim that I am taking a risk by ingesting Ser0que1. Taking Ser0que1 is not a sacrifice made on the behalf of the baby, it's made on the behalf of me.

Perhaps this little discussion is driven by the fact that while I took my Ser0que1 last night, I was up by 3:30 this morning unable to sleep. That's just insult to injury, my friends.

And the walls came crumbling down

Perhaps from my last entry, you have deduced that I am on a downward slide. If so, you would be entirely correct. I ran out of Z0l0ft over the weekend and am on day 2 of complete withdrawal. I am quickly losing the ability to function at all and the world is looking surprisingly bleak. Let's hit the low points:

1. I am not at all nauseous today. Not at all. Moderately crampy too. Convinced that this pregnancy is over.
2. Nothing I do will ever change my current circumstances. I will always be a failure. And, despite my track record, I will always work really hard only to cause cataclysmic destruction and failure.
3. I am stupid no matter how many degrees I have.
4. I can't pay my rent, no matter how many jobs I have, because see above.
5. No matter how much I know about my mental illness and the importance of maintaining my meds, I will always allow myself to run out of meds and then consider myself a total failure in everything with any importance.
6. I will take everything personally, blame everything on myself, realize that I am depressed and then still slice open my arms in attempt at healing. Now that makes so much sense doesn't it?

I could just keep going, but I think we get the point.

Fuck my classes, my committments, and my clients. I'm going home.

Just crazy

Sometimes I marvel at the appropriateness of the name of my blog. Although today, I leave out the "enough" and say, "Just crazy". My emotions have been all over the board and it's a true miracle that my husband doesn't just quietly pack up and leave while I'm sleeping.

Early last week, I arrived at a decision to go with "Fifty Fingers" OB/GYN and gave them a call to schedule an appointment. When they said they would "be willing" to see me as early as November 28th, I started to rethink my decision. So I hung up and called the doctor that is 35 minutes away. I have an appointment for November 1, and the only reason they couldn't get me in earlier is because he was out of town the week I called. So next Thursday, I am hoping for a positive experience and a gratuitous scan. Honestly, the 35 minute drive will give me some time to spend with Husband; time that is becoming increasingly rare with my overloaded schedule.

In the crazy department, I never miss an opportunity to worry. If I don't have any cramps or back pain then I worry that the little guy has ceased to grow and I have become a walking human coffin. Lovely. If I do have cramps or a low backache, no matter how mild, I worry that I am about to deliver a baby the size of a pistachio. So no matter what, I am screwed in the head. Plus, I had my weekly breakdown last Sunday and concluded that I would fail every single thing I am trying to do if I didn't relieve myself of some of the stress. So, my professor graciously granted me an incomplete so that I could write my brief for a motion for summary judgment over the holiday break. Thank God for male professors who are terrified of crazy pregnant women.

You know you're crazy when...

You know that you're crazy when...

• you throw a mug full of old coffee at your husband, it breaks against the wall, and then you feel bad because you liked that mug.
• pulling your hair out feels good.
• digging your nails into your own arms brings relief.
• you want to put your husband's head through a wall because he did exactly what you asked him to do.
• turning left in front of an oncoming-semi sounds like a good time.
• you call your therapist and wish her a good vacation week because she will need all the rest she can get before your next appointment with her.
• you write a list of reasons why you are crazy.

Feel free to add your own to my list in the comments.

Bare arms.

Now that it's Spring and the weather has warmed up, I am wearing short sleeves again. Every year, I enter into a dangerous cycle when I look at my arms and notice that other people are looking at them too. My arms tell a tale of great sadness and desperation with their long, wide scars. I am a cutter.

The scars show times when I ran out of options for dealing with emotional pain. The older scars run the length of my wrists and have faded with the years. When they run parallel to the length of my arm, they are attempts at creating an ending. The scars that run perpendicular to the length of my arm are attempts at distraction. Physical pain deters my attention from emotional pain. And once the episode is over and the scabs fall off and reveal red, sensitive scar tissue, I am left with shame. Deep shame for the way I feel and the choices I make. It's a never ending cycle that usually results in more cutting.

That same shame sucks me in when friends, family, and acquaintances stare at my arms or actually ask about what they see. I never have any idea what to say. Usually, I come up with some especially lame excuse like falling. But, only if the person wants to believe that, would they actually accept such reasoning. After all, not too many falls give you such straight and long scars that run the length of my forearm and are obviously from different time periods. Some people will actually ask me multiple times to see if my answer changes, mostly that's my mother-in-law and sister-in-law.

And, so I sit here staring at my arms, wondering where the next cut will be and when. I am impatiently waiting for my husband to call me. He is out golfing and was supposed to call about an hour ago so I could meet them all for drinks and dinner. A delinquent husband, shame, and lack of medication are a recipe for disaster.

WWBD?

Updated 4/26/07: Please know that the following post may get your panties in a bunch. I acknowledge that I am an angry, evil, nasty person right now. I am in no way saying that one must to do certain things to deserve a baby. Everyone deserves to be happy. I'm just not right now.

Sometimes when I am going through my day, I ask myself an age old question-What would Bloggies do? Perhaps you are wondering why I don't ask what Buddha or Jesus would do. Well, I already know what those two would do, and I also know it's not likely that I will choose to do what they do. So instead I ask what others with somewhat similar struggles would do in a particular situation. What would Aurelia, or Ultimate Journey, or Serenity, or Sara or Oneliner, or Lady in Waiting, or OHN, or Bumble, or Marie-Baguette, or Adrienne, or My Reality, or Sara, or Casey, or Megan, or Anns, or Nadine, or Berrybird, or Becks, or Barbara, or Renee, or Katy, or Carrie, or Caro, or Emilija or Mands, or Jane, or NSLS, or Diane, or Colette, or The Road Less Travelled or any of the other many Bloggies do in my spot? (by the way, if you comment I will add your name to the above list with a link to your site; yup shear desperation for friends, well that and I have no shame)

I had an appointment with my OB/GYN on Friday for my 1-month post-D&C checkup. Because they were running late and because all possible inconveniences insist on making their home in my life, I spent a fair amount of time in their waiting room. While doing time in OB hell, I desperately searched for something to read that didn't have the words "baby", "pregnant", or "parents" on the cover. Once I realized that this was too tall an order, I attempted to soothe myself by staring out their picture window at the cathartic sight of a parking lot. Looking back, I would have been better off counting loops of yarn in the waiting room carpet.

So, while I carefully studied the parking lot, an enormous pregnant woman comes into view. I would guess that she was around the 8th month. Instantly, I start to tear up and feel that boulder in my throat. When I caught sight of the next detail, I almost fell out of my chair and most definitely let out an audible gasp. This woman, who is lucky enough to still be pregnant was surrounded by cigarette smoke. Then, I realized it was coming from the cigarette in her hand. She was fucking smoking! I was livid. Just as I was about to march out to the parking lot and give her some of my mind blowing wisdom, the nurse called me in. I made a mental note to glare at the pregnant lady with the cancer stick when I came back out.

So the nurse saved this woman from my unmedicated, hormonal, post-miscarriage wrath. I still don't know what I was going to say, but I would venture to guess that it would have been along the lines of "What the fuck is wrong with you, lady?" or perhaps "Would you like a beer to go with that?". Let's be honest though, I am way too wimpy to have actually said anything to a woman with that much weight behind her. Scary.

So here's the ultimate question, what would you do?

Pity Party in Progress-You may want to skip this post.

I had high hopes for today. The plan was to go to school, attend all 3 classes, do the readings, and participate in life itself. It was a nice plan. So for those of you who have just about had it with reading my pitiful whining, you may want to navigate away from this page. The weekend's hope and reason has since faded away into oblivion.

Coming through the breezeway, I was playing the theme from Rocky in my head. Battered and bruised, I was determined to come back to life. I made it through my first class this morning without shedding a single tear. As I exited the lecture hall, that's when it happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a fellow l@w student who is about 6 months pregnant. And, like a grisly accident, I simply could not look away. I found myself staring at her belly. After a few moments of visual torture, I was on the verge of hysterical crying. My carrell is near the stacks, so I buried myself in the nearest hidden corner and sobbed. I did manage to get to my second class, but I still have no idea what we talked about in that lecture. Now, I have to figure out how to make it to 2:30 for the last lecture.

Here it comes, the whining (complete with all the overused phrases of self pity)...

Why me? Why not her? Why does every single thing in my life need to be so fucking hard? Let's review... In the beginning, I had a father with untreated Bipolar I. Under his rule, I was not permitted to wear pants, not allowed to cut my hair, and suffered enough beatings at his hand to make me the most fearful and yet devoted daddy's girl ever known. At 7 years old, my dear father died suddenly of a heart attack. No father for me. At 7 years old, I became a substitute parent for my 2, and later 3, younger sisters. At 7 years old, I assumed more adult roles than should ever be placed upon a child of that age. I cooked dinners, cleaned the house, helped with homework, and protected my sisters from my mother's frequent rages. No childhood for me. At 12 years old, my mother married my step-father. They had a child together...as if I didn't have enough to do. And to add to the fun, my step-father's OCD made my life a living hell. At 17 years old, I went off to college where I thought I could escape from my family. A year later, my mother sent my 15 year old sister to live with me because she couldn't handle her anymore. That lasted just long enough to obliterate my second year of college. At 24, I married a drug addict, because I'm an idiot. At 26, on April 1st no less, he announced he was in love with another woman and wanted a divorce. Around the same time, I was diagnosed with bipolar II. Somewhere in there, I made about 3 weak suicide attempts. I became a cutter, and have the disgusting scars to prove it. At 27, I was forced into bankruptcy by the debt left to me in the divorce and the mounting medical bills. At 32, I endured what I believe to be the first of many miscarriages. A few days later, I discover I contracted chlamydia from the first husband.

Now, in the big world, there are millions of people with a history much more tragic than mine. Even in the blogging world, there are worse tales. But somehow, this doesn't make me feel any better. I am so tired, beaten, bruised from this life. I am not smart enough to finish this horror called l@w school. I only got a Ph.Duh. because my advisor feels sorry for me. I am a sham, a failure, a loser. Because, in all of this badness, I have had good things. I went to college afterall. I remarried to the best husband ever.

But it's the loss that's killing me. No father, no Pooter, no credit, no future. I am really sorry for the pathetic tone of this post, and how ungrateful I sound. I feel frozen in my losses, as if Spring thaw will never come. Did I mention we got 5 inches of snow last night, and it's still falling? I am tired of crying.

Missions of Mercy (updated to an annoying degree)

Before you read the following, please note that I am not actually complaining about blogging comments, except for the one that I mention in the post. The asshat derived comments I am referring to are NOT from blogland. These are asshats that I talk to every day in my non-virtual life. So, please don't read into this post, I am not at all upset with any of my regular readers (ashmc2, you can go ahead and assume I am not all that impressed with your comment though).

The former version of this post has been removed. For those who did read it and those who commented, please don't be concerned. It will be OK.

The old version was a mistake. I shouldn't post such a thing, and when I went back to read it, it made me sick. I am too vulnerable and unstable to read any comments to such a disgusting post which actually reveals a little too much of how angry and ugly I have become. I apologize. Nothing to see here, please move along and pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.

update 4/10/07: Now that I have made such an issue of the removed post, I feel like I am hiding from the bloggies, and I never want to hide from you all. Here is the most painful part of the post that I took down so that you can all understand why I find myself so ugly right now. As you can see I am really struggling.

All in all, it went OK. I promised myself not to discuss the miscarriage with the in-laws, mainly because I knew whatever they would say during such a discussion would damn them to hell in my mind. And, well, I was right. I talked about the death of Pooter. It sucked. Husband's sister, a 30-something single woman, couldn't help but throw in the two people she knew who had miscarried. Repeatedly, she told me that they were "very common, you know, like, no big deal." Then she proceeded to tell me how everyone she knows who has miscarried had no problem staying pregnant later. Clearly we are in different social circles. Few things make me angrier than when someone tries to either tell me why a bad thing isn't really that bad or why my grief isn't valid because it's so common.

And at the risk of losing every single reader I have, I will say this one thing to preempt a particular comment. I am perfectly aware of the fact that people are well meaning when they make comments (specifically check out the one from ASHMC2) about the miscarriage. I am well aware of the fact that they were just trying to help. I am completely aware of the fact that they don't know what to say. I know all of this, really I do. And, guess what? That doesn't make me feel any better. One person who does get to "feel better" for having said something is the insensitive asshat who convinced themselves that their words of wisdom would wipe away the pain. Not to ruin SIL's mission of mercy or anything, but I am glad that someone is feeling better, even though it's definitely not me. Looks like she wins either way. Nice.

As an attempt at something positive from this mangled post, I will add the following link. "Helping someone after a miscarriage" It's a lovely compilation of do's, don'ts, and not to say's to a person who has miscarried. Any New Zealander's out there? That's one country that seems to actually get it.

My mother-in-law

I love my mother-in-law (hereinafter MIL) but sometimes I don't like her. A few weeks ago, Husband was supposed to go up to his mom's house and set up her computer along with her internet service. We live 2 hours away, so a visit requires gas and gas requires money. We have absolutely no money. The weekend he was scheduled to go up was the same weekend as my D&C so he postponed the visit until the following weekend (just this past weekend, actually).

Because I didn't want to be alone all day on a Saturday and without a car, I decided to go with him to MIL's house. Our plan was to be at her house for a few hours, just long enough for him to set up her computer, and then we would proceed to a large park called Mendon Ponds for the afternoon before heading home. When Husband and I first dated, we would go to Mendon Ponds with the Jack Russell Terrier and walk the trails. It's a lovely place, and I tend to feel peaceful when I visit the ponds. We even went so far as to call MIL and let her know of our plans so that she wouldn't expect us to stay for the day. It was a good plan.

Husband told his mom that the subject of my miscarriage was off limits and requested that she not bring it up. When we arrived, Husband went right to work on her computer. I was stuck talking to MIL, despite the fact that I was attempting to read my casebook for school. She proceeded to go on and on about Husband's 2 cousins, both of them are 3 years old. Great, just what I want to talk about...children. Then, as she walked away, she threw in that one of those 3 year olds plus his older brother would be coming over for the day. Perfect. And, that we would be coloring Easter eggs together. Wow, it just gets better and better.

Just as Husband is finishing up, she tells me that dinner will be ready at 3pm. Dinner? No sooner do I find out that she has slated us for dinner, does Husband's sister show up. Clearly this dinner thing had been planned from the beginning and she had not warned or even asked Husband whether he wanted to stay. Once dinner was done, I thought, well, we still have some daylight to go to the ponds. When I go to look for Husband so we can round up the dogs and head out, I discover him in MIL's driveway surrounded by parts excavated from his sister's car door. In fact, he had taken the whole thing apart to fix her window. I was in shock.

It was quite clear from that point, that we would not be going to the ponds, and that MIL had no intention of allowing us to stick to the plan we had told her about. We had been ambushed once again by my MIL. Fuck.

The kicker is that I was angry with myself for expecting things to be different than they are. I went in expecting to follow our plan when in the past such plans have always been summarily ignored by MIL and Husband. What was I thinking? I know better than to expect what I cannot have, and yet I expect it anyway.

I want to take a long walk off a short pier. I want to play in traffic. I want to go to war. Anything that would provide a method of self destruction. I am so tired of me. When I look forward at the minutes I have to fill, I just want to leave them empty.

The Socks

Left: Photo of a landscape architecture installation in our collegetown area.


I stayed home from class today. I really had no desire to wander the l@w school while I sobbed in public. Plus, did you know all that ugly crying seems to make you twice as ugly the next day? So as much as I would like to be surrounded by people living in the world of the sane, I am spending my time blogging at home. Historically, I have stayed home from work or school because of emotional trauma, and subsequently, I end up feeling so isolated and alone in the world that it makes everything worse. So now when I stay home, blogging allows me to be by myself while still remaining connected to people, really really good people.



I have a dozen stories in my head that I would like to write about at this time, but one in particular has been at the front of my head. Mainly because it happened recently, and for the 3rd time. It involves some very minor crafting, and the dogs. I take a white tube sock and fill it with uncooked rice. Then, I tie off a knot at the end of the sock to close it up. At that point, it becomes The Sock. When my neck/back muscles are sore, I heat up The Sock for around 2-3 minutes in the microwave. It serves as a fabulous heating pad for sore muscles, and can easily be wrapped around the back of the neck. The truly crafty can add lavender to the rice to give off a lovely scent.

The problem at my house is the dogs. I have made 3 of these socks in the last couple of years. All 3 of The Socks, have been summarily ripped open by our two dogs, a male German Shepherd and a female Jack Russell Terrier, when we have mistakenly left The Sock out and not in use. Once they get The Sock open, the two of them consume as much of the rice as possible. The rice that escapes into the carpet is like a snack that they can go to when feeling the munchies come on later. During the last sock destruction and consumption party the dogs had, they did manage to leave some of the rice in the sock. I threw that sock and its rice in the garbage. About a week later they found the garbage that contained the remnants of the sock, and succeeded in pulling it out of the garbage and eating the remaining rice now well seasoned with other garbage. Nice.

The digestive fallout from these rice episodes isn't pretty. And now that I am not pregnant, I am part of the clean up crew again. Good times.

Now what? (with minor update)

So, I don't really know how to keep going. This is my first day back to class after being absent for the last week. To say that I am a vegetable may be overstating my ability to function. I tried to read up on the assignments so I would be ready for class, and it just wasn't happening for me. I just keep reading the same sentences over and over again. Honestly, I don't know how I am going to complete the semester.

I am stuck in grief. Last night, we went out to see David Sedaris do a reading at our local theater. Towards the end, he promoted a book about zombies, the living dead. Now that I think it over, I think that may be me, the living dead, a zombie. A lifeless but moving corpse that just wants to bite people's heads off. That's me.

It's a bit scary when I realize that I have zero desire to live or to be alive. I just want to fade to black, quietly, while no one is paying attention.

Updated as of 8ish this evening: I have been crying in that ugly way all day, but I am still here. Thanks to all of you, the husband, and the pups (even though they got into the garbage). Not going anywhere today, promise.

Uncomfortably Numb

The bottom dropped out this morning. Since the physical pain is gone, I don't need to continue taking the Per.c0cets. So now there is plenty of room to feel the emotional pain. Until today, I couldn't really cry. And, I find it ironic that I am curled up in fetal position on the couch unable to be productive in any way at all.

Thank you all, by the way, for all of your comments and support. Reading them over and over again hasn't gotten me through things so far. Without all of you, I certainly wouldn't have managed so long.

But now I am hurdling toward hell. Husband has opted to stay home with me today. My lighthouse in the storm. And this has been no fun for him either, he is truly mourning and working through his grief. I, on the other hand, am not. Even though, I know it's not good, I am fighting the grief in the same stubborn way I fought the anesthesia the day of the D&C. I simply can't find words for my grief, and so I feel so numb and in silent pain all at the same time. I don't even know how to feel so much pain.

And, you would think that by now, I would have learned how to efficiently deal with pain. It's certainly not new to my world. Perhaps I am just tired of loss. Pretty pathetic given that this is my first miscarriage. It's the accumulated loss over a lifetime that is crushing me.

The Not-Baby Steps

Everyone's comments are proving infinitely helpful to me right now. At this point, I am living off of your support and that of my husband's. Thank you so much for your help. I am clinging to all of you right now to stay afloat in the pending storm.

Yesterday's visit with the doctor went pretty much as I expected. He laid out the risks and benefits of my options-the waiting game of a natural expelling, the chemical and technicolor pill route, and the "how could you do that to your body" method of the D&C. Clearly, he wants me to just go the natural way, and feels that there is too much risk involved in the D&C. He successfully scared the living crap out of Husband so that now he is begging me to reconsider my choice for a D&C. Husband finds the chemical version's risks more palatable. I really do understand his concern and anxiety about an invasive, surgical procedure that in his mind could be avoided by letting my body do what it needs to do on its own time.

But, here's the deal, at this point I don't have a lot of trust in my body. Pooter has left the building and now all I am left with is a fetus my body refused to support. My body had its chance and now it's time to step in and intervene.

So here's what I need some more of from all of you. Support and lots of it. Yes, I am a whore like that. I want to hear more of what you think of a D&C. I want to hear about your D&C's. The doctor filled our heads with all kinds of horror stories about how the procedure could cause future miscarriages. There could be fertility damaging infection. It will cause problems with my body not letting go of the placenta in future pregnancies. And on and on. Don't get me wrong, I love my doctors and appreciate their concern. He didn't fight with me when I made my choice either. Normally, I would be all over Dr. Google looking for information, but I don't know that it will help me right now. I need human perspectives, not just odds and statistics. This is hard and I am so very sad. I just feel so defeated, useless, beaten down.

Quick Trips

The plan was to go to Washington D.C. for a disability l@w conference. We were to leave Wednesday, stay overnight at the cheapest hotel I could find, and then I would go to the conference for the day while Husband explored the Smithsonian. We would reconvene around 5pm and have a lovely dinner somewhere nice. Friday, we would go to the Smithsonian together, specifically the museum of natural history, for the day and leave late afternoon to return home. Such a great plan, if only that's what would have happened.

As I mentioned in my last post, the vaginal bleeding had stopped by Wednesday. So we packed up and left for D.C. By the time we got to the hotel, there was a bit of pink going on down there. All went according to plan the next morning. The conference was very interesting. Then, we broke for lunch and I rushed off to the bathroom with a full bladder. It was then that I found out that I was bleeding again. Quite a bit more this time around. I wonder if the other women in the bathroom could hear my stifled sobs. I tried to call Husband and doctor but for some reason the calls wouldn't go through. So, I proceeded to the catered lunch ahead, but I was an absolute wreck to say the least. As I tried to focus on the buffet table through teary eyes, I almost lost myself right there in the buffet line. EVERY single dish on the table had tons of Gorgonzola on it. ALL of them. I was stunned and given my emotional state really felt the world was against me. Yes, you can see the level of sanity one has when Gorgonzola sends one into hysterics.

So I plopped a roll on my plate and sat down to lunch with 8 eager women talking vigorously about disability issues. Actually, I picked an empty corner table and the chair tucked into the deepest darkest corner of the room. But of course, when I don't want to see anyone is exactly when I become a social magnet. After finishing my lunch roll, I excused myself to try my phone calls again. Finally, I got a hold of Husband to tell him that I couldn't bleed and be at this conference. I needed him by my side. Unfortunately, it had taken him about an hour to walk to the museum from our hotel and would take him at least that long for him to walk back and get the car. By the time he picked me up, about 1 1/2 hours later, he was drenched in sweat from running the 2.5 miles back to the hotel, and then navigating the D.C. streets to get to me.

At that point in my life, that was the sweetest sight I have ever seen. My husband. I did finally get a hold of the nurse at my doctor's office and gave her the full run down of the gory symptoms, all while sitting in the hallway of the conference hall and of course within ear reach of at least a dozen horrified looking people. By that point, I did not give a shit who heard what I said. When I got off the phone, I just wanted to scream out, "Yes, I said discharge and blood, what are you all looking at?" But, I didn't.

Husband and I agreed that we would be going back first thing in the morning to make the noon doctor's appointment I now had. From that point on, I kept thinking about which alcohol I would be drinking first upon hearing the doctor give us the bad news. "I nice port perhaps...a good red wine...no, I think I will go with the finest single malt scotch I can find. That should do it. Hmmm, and I wonder if I could find some good her0ine on the streets of D.C. to take home for the party. Surely, I could at least find some crack." Then, I wondered whether I could have had that Gorgonzola after all.

We broke every possible traffic law to get back here for the appointment today. Then, the doctor sat with us and gave us his "this is your first pregnant lady appointment" lecture. And as I sat there, all I could think is, "Don't waste your breath buddy, just stick in the dildo cam so I can see a sonogram of absolutely nothing." And I laid there holding Husband's hand, while the doctor confirmed that my cervix was still closed up tight. Then came my new favorite form of picture making, the dildo cam. And there it was, an apparently healthy, right-sized, peanut of a baby complete with a heartbeat. Unbelievable. So instead of the liquor store, we headed out to pick up our doggies from the kennel. Never a better day was had.

Hypomanic Fallout

It's no secret in this blogland of ours that I have bipolar. Specifically I have bipolar II, which mostly means for me that instead of all out mania, I tend to have lower manic phases, called hypomania. Now this can mean all different things for all different people, so what I am about to describe is just my own experience. I cannot emphasize enough that everyone's phases manifest in different ways.

For me hypomania is a time of taking on the world. While in one moment that means I am determined to do every task and opportunity that comes my way, in another moment taking on the world means being angry and irritable with absolutely everything and everyone. The problem, as most bipolar people will tell you, what goes up must come down.

Normally, in a proper medicated state, the highs are not too high and the lows and not too low. However, in my current insufficiently medicated state, the highs are as high as the sun and the lows go so low that I find myself in hell. So given that pregnancy hormones already make for a somewhat unusual mental/emotional state, in me, that's compounded by the absence of mood regulating medications. I am taking Z010ft, which has been deemed safe for pregnancy, but really it's not your safest bet for people with bipolar. This drug is an antidepressant and tend to send bipolar people into extended states of mania. And mania can be enhanced by life altering events.

Finding out that I was pregnant served as the perfect trigger for mania. However with the exhaustion, I was rapidly cycling in and out of mania. Some people experience mania as a fabulous high that enables their creativity and productivity to beyond human levels and expectations. On my end, mania is not a time for happiness. In fact with my racing thoughts, rage, irritability, and general do-it-all attitude, there is no time for happiness, or reason, or logic. And there is definitely no time for mistakes, especially my own.

After the BFP, I was off and running. Someone finally offered me a place on their mock trial team and I picked it right up even after strong warnings from Husband and therapist not to take on additional stress right now. Then, I took on a legal aid volunteer project located 2 hours away, in a county that has 10 feet of accumulated snow. I told all my mentees (first year lah stoodents) that I could help them anytime, and made successive appointments with them to do so. This is all in addition to my part time job as a rese@rch consultant for the usd@, my four classes, and my hunt for a summer job.

The down came sooner than expected. Suddenly, I discovered that I couldn't do any of this. I was stressed, anxious, and exhausted. Now depressed, it was harder for me to get even my normal load of work done. So after I committed myself to all of these projects, how the hell was I going to get out of them all? Certainly, I can't run around outing myself to everyone as a bipolar crazy person who was in a fit of mania when she took on the world and then some. The insanity defense isn't really where I wanted to go. The fallout from that admission could be even worse from the fallout of the manic episode itself.

So how did I do it? I didn't, other people did. Thus, I did some serious leaning on those who already loved me and already knew about my illness. My husband helped organize my thoughts and prioritize, not to mention keep a perspective. My bloggie friends, yup all of you whether you know it or not, talked me off the ledge and also helped to put both a positive and realistic spin on things. And, one of my best friend's A, who in fact has her own challenge of being a l@w stoodent and blind, helped me get through the mock trial event. She essentially held my hand through the whole thing. And all I could do was return the favor in the most minimal of ways. I cut up her french toast at brunch the other day, and did the driving. Pales in comparison to the way she helped me, but it was all I had to offer at the time. If you are reading this, A...THANK YOU!!!

Still kickin'

Have I told you all recently that I love you? Because, I do. You have all provided much needed support. I am feeling a bit more on an even keel, despite the fact that we are pretty much snowed in. According to the guy that gravelled our long, steep driveway a couple of years ago, no plow truck could ever hope to make it up our driveway to plow it. He said that he would come dig us out on Saturday with a BACK HOE! Oh my god, what's that gonna cost us?

So I took a taxi into my therapy appointment today, because I really, really needed therapy badly. Glad I did, because along with all of your comments, it helped. Screw the mock trial, I am too busy with real life stuff anyway. If I keep telling myself that, eventually I will believe it. That helps me avoid the idea of running into the main lecture hall, and blowing everyone away with one well placed nuc1ear we@pon. (Please don't call the police, because in reality, just the fact that I thought of that scares the hell out of me. I have a hard time hurting a spider, much less a human being.) Anyway, with my fabulous mental health record, no one would let me have so much as a BB gun. So step away from the phone!

Now I am about to rant about my overly religious, bible thumping sister. I hope that I don't offend those of you who do have faith in a higher being, but I really need to get this out. I have the utmost respect for people who keep the faith, but I consider faith and religion and spirituality a very private thing. I have no problem with people who blog about it, it's their blog after all, and that never offends me. I also am not offended when people say they will pray for me or someone else. It shows that they care in their own way, I am grateful for that. But when someone actively and specifically tells (not requests, but instructs) me to pray, when they know that I don't and won't, it really bugs the fuck out of me. I am an adult, I have made my decision after much deep thought, and I plan on sticking with it. I do have a godchild, and her mother knows my feelings. I see myself as a spiritual person, in my own right, not a religious person. So I think I am up for the job. That said, here goes my rant.

My sister, let's call her Beth for now, she is an elementary school teacher and the 3rd of the four girls in my family. All of us didn't exactly get all of the love and attention that we needed as kids, so we each found individual ways of getting attention outside the family. I chose school and buried myself in it, typical 1st child syndrome. The 2nd, we'll call her Anne, well she chose sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, oh and the occasional beating from a boyfriend or two. Beth carved out her own niche, by attending church pretty much every day from the time she was around 8 years old. She had a friend whose father was a pastor and she attended church with them, every chance she could get. Not a bad plan, if it wasn't to the extreme. She preached to all of us on a daily basis. She told our mother that if she didn't go to church she couldn't continue to be her mother, and she said she would be adopting a new mom from church. Nice, huh? The funniest one, was when she told our mother that when she got married, she would have to sit in the second row, while her "real", church mom would get to sit in the first row. My mother said that if that was in her plans, then she had best ask her new mom to pay for the wedding as well. With all of the trouble that Anne and myself gave my mother, nothing was more difficult to battle than a bible thumping, self righteous teenager called Beth. Nothing.

Beth knows very well that I am not a Christian, I am Buddhist. Period. I don't talk about my spirituality with her unless she asks a specific question. And even then, I limit it to very basic, need to know information. I have asked her repeatedly not to preach to me and to keep her faith to herself around me. Yes, I am a total bitch, but that's just me. As an aside, she does things that I don't usually associate with a devout Christian. Before her wedding she got a full Brazilian wax job. FULL! Now, I really try hard not the judge her, but that just struck me as odd. But hey, what do I know. The other funny thing this kid did as a teenager to demonstrate her faith, she got a tattoo. Not a big deal, except that it's on her ass and is a tattoo consisting of a Jesus fish, a cross, and some other religious symbol I didn't recognize. Anne and I taunt her regularly and tell her she is sitting on God. We're relentless, I know, but it's our job, because we're sisters.

Now Beth is pretty clueless about life's challenges in general. And her awareness of the struggles of infertility is zilch, nada, nothing. Her idea of struggling to have a baby is trying to build up enough funds to buy all the nursery furniture from P0ttery B@rn. That's her biggest concern. So from the land of clueless, she continues to send me updates on 4th sis', Carrie's, pregnancy. In fact, Beth went so far as to announce the sex of Carrie's fetus today and send out a picture of her pregnant belly. Never mind, that Carrie is perfectly capable and probably wanted to do the gender announcement herself. And I won't even go on about the fact that she signed it "Aunt Beth". But the final straw was when she told me to pray for Carrie, her pregnancy, and her baby girl.

It's everything I can do to not send her a picture of my middle finger. Everything.

I'm not good enough, I'm not smart enough, and gosh darn it nobody likes me.

I used to repeat Stuart Smalley's positive affirmation to fight the negative cycle of thoughts in my head. Today, that strategy has completely fallen apart. I have been riding a high for a few days now, and as we all know, what comes up must come down. Let's here it for the laws of physics!

So, at lala school, the moot c0urt board is sponsoring the first m0ck trial competition in their history. Because of the snow, I couldn't make it to the first organizational meeting. Not a big deal in terms of signing up because they post all the information on their website, but I did want to go so that I could find team members. Each team is made up of 4 members. The competition is open to all 3 classes (1L, 2L, 3L). So there are a lot of people who are going to be part of it. As I said, I wasn't able to go to the meeting, so I didn't get the opportunity to scope out a team. The organizer said not to worry, that there were lots of people looking for team mates. She instructed me, along with many others, to email the school's list serve and to let others know I was looking too.

I went ahead and emailed the list serve on Wednesday night and shot email replies back to the few people who had done the same. I got responses back pretty quickly saying that they already had a team together. Interesting, since I had emailed them within 5 minutes of the time they sent out their request. Since then, I have been frantically checking my email for replies. In the last two days I haven't received a single one.

Brings me back to all those times, I wasn't picked for teams in grade school. Those were the days when the teacher would just assign me to a team to get it over with. It was a real ego booster then, and even more so now. I am a puddle of tears over this situation. I am just absolutely sick over it. I keep thinking, "Why doesn't anyone like me?" Why is lala school so reminiscent of all the terrible moments in elementary, middle, and high school? I am in so much pain, and am having trouble convincing myself that I have any worth at all. If not one person out of about 400 students wants me on their team what does that say about me? I'll tell you. I am not good enough. That's what each and every one of those people and events says. I am nowhere near good enough. Pathetic, pitiful, and puddle making.

Delusions of Grandeur

The weekends are never quite what I hoped they would be. I always have delusions of grandeur on Friday, and I am consistently sorely disappointed. No wild parties, no fancy restaurants, no sex 3 times a day. (OK, so the last one is really my fault since my UTI-like symptoms kind of put the brakes on all that for a bit.) And then you add a big fat negative to the mix, and well, you know. However, sometimes making a few good purchases can rescue an otherwise banal weekend.

Friday, I finally used a gift certificate for T@rget that I received from a friend due to a good deed. I went out a bought a deep electric fryer with it. It's awesome! Never mind that I am really not supposed to eat fried foods because of my genetic predisposition to croaking over from a heart attack in my 30's or 40's. But life is so much better when you include fried foods. So that night, we enjoyed so much vegetable tempura that now I don't even want to see anything fried for a few weeks.

What else did I do that was self destructive? Glad you asked. I ate all the things that you are not supposed to eat if you have a putative interstitial cystitis diagnosis. I consumed 3 cups of coffee Saturday morning after going for a full week without. I had a beer Friday night. I ate a bag of Funyuns, complete with MSG, for breakfast on Saturday. Then for dinner, I enjoyed spaghetti with a lot of aged Parmesan and enough tomato sauce to burn an acid hole right through my bladder. Then that night, I whined and whimpered about how much my bladder burned, and then grumped so much at my husband that he moved from the love seat next to me to the couch on the other side of the living room. Good job, me.

Today, Husband and I went to the Tractor Supply store a good half hour away to buy a maul to chop wood. Of course, I couldn't walk out of there without a full exploration of the place. Turns out I love tractor supply stores as much as I love office supply stores, which is A LOT! We walked out with a big dog bed for our German Shepherd (hereinafter GSD), a mammoth bag of dog food, and a giant Nylabone to the GSD to chew on. Even more evidence of my self destructive mood, given that we really don't have money budgeted for such things.

Here's the funny part, the Jack Russell Terrier was keen on the bed and bone and took over both immediately (shown here). She really rules the roost around here, and clearly has her own delusions of grandeur.














Sorry they are so blurry, but I don't have a digital camera, I only have the camera on my cell phone.

Also, I thought I would share some photos of my kitchen. This is what happens when I am not feeling well. It just hasn't learned to keep itself clean yet. By the way, I know you want to know the name of my decorator after seeing the color of my kitchen walls. You should see the bathroom. It has a pept0 b1sm0l pink toilet, a black counter top and black carpet! Yeah, carpet!