The Corporate Noose

Calling in sick to work is not something I do very easily; it is always a big tug on the old guilt noose. I was that perfectionist girl who worked extra hard until minutes before she ended up in the psych ward on suicide watch. It's just a part of who I am.

I didn't realize I was as so burnt out until Tuesday night, when I was at a family dinner trying to refrain from killing my mother, and almost lost it on her stoic, Scottish self (my 5-year-old niece had just been at the hospital that day for major stomach pain and my mother was telling her to stop faking it and to stop crying so the adults could relax. I had flashbacks to my childhood). I did not want to go home at the end of the night because I didn't want to get up in the morning. A bit telling...

Devon is away in Miami for work, and I have been alone this week, which I actually enjoy on the most part. There is a lot of work to do around the house, and it's not like I've had much of an opportunity to relax, but there is something to be said for sitting on the couch in your underwear eating chocolate and staying up too late watching porn bad TV. It took everything in me to call in sick yesterday. I had to remind myself that I do not save lives and that the world would go on okay without me at my desk. So, I finally realized how bad I needed the day off, and probably for the first time in my working career, called in sick when I wasn't *that* sick (physically). I just feel like I'm losing my head, a bit.

There is good news about work though. I am covering a one-year maternity leave, which is coming to an end in August. There was some talk of creating a new position for me, which has gone through about seven different levels of management and I have not been able to get an answer for months, but just found out that the position has been approved. I do still have to go through an application process, but I'm hopeful that if I do apply (which I will), the position will be mine. Would just like to sign on the dotted line though.

The best part about a job in this company? The fertility clinic is in the building next door. I can leave at lunch and get inseminated and be back at my desk well within the hour. How convenient. Honestly, that is part of my motivation to stay, as effed-up as it sounds...

I went back to work this morning and actually got more done in half a day than I have in the last week. There has been a lot of staring-through-the-screen-thinking-of-nothing time over the past few weeks, so I feel a wee bit rejuventated. 

Two weeks in Maui would be nice about now. It frikkin' snowed here today. And I know I live in Canada [in an igloo, with my dogsled], but I can't remember the last time it snowed this late in the year.

[image source: payitforward4profits.com]

Trying to Breathe

The thing about panic attacks is that they don't make sense. So when you think you're feeling pretty relaxed, tired, and generally anxiety-free, and all you're doing is brushing your teeth and suddenly you can't breathe - that's pretty typical for when panic attacks hit.

I haven't had an attack in probably 10 years, and this weekend, I spent a good twenty minutes clutching onto my chest because of the pain, trying to decide whether I was going to puke or cry (or both), and trying to get enough air into my lungs. Thank god Devon was home, because regardless of how many panic attacks I've had in my late teens and early twenties, I was not prepared for this one.

For the first time in a long time, it passed through my head that I might die. It sounds silly now, but when you can't breathe and your chest feels like it shattered inside, and you don't really know what's going on, it's sounds about right. Not remembering ever feeling this bad, I thought perhaps it was an allergic reaction to the Trazadone (which I did fill), and perhaps an interaction between medications. We were going to go to the hospital if it had lasted any longer, but I got through it - despite feeling as though I couldn't and wouldn't.

I've had a panic attack in front of Devon before, but it was one of those can't-get-enough-breath-in-for-three-minutes type of attack, not the think-I'm-going-to-die type of attack. She was amazing and grounded and calm and very wonderful. She breathed slowly and encouraged me to match her breath, she put her hand on my chest where it hurt, she helped me find the best position to lie down in, and most importantly, she talked me through it.

I don't really know what's going on with me right now. I know I'm tired and I haven't been able to sleep, which is huge for me. I know I'm a little anxious about work, as I'm covering a mat leave and although I know my boss has put in a proposal for me to stay, I don't know - and don't know when I'll know - whether I'll be able to stay, or whether I have to launch head-first into job seeking. Nothing that warrants the panic that I had this weekend.

But like many thing in the crazy world, panic attacks make little to no sense at all.

Do. Not. Like. Hopefully this was a one-off.

Wake Me When This Part Is Over

I went to my shrink this evening to get a referral to a reproductive psychiatrist and I left with a prescription for Trazadone.

I don't know whether I'll fill it. I don't think I will, but I took it from him so I could have some time to think about it. It would not be to take as an everyday medication. It would be to take once or twice to finally get some sleep.

Since coming off the anti-anxieties completely, I have battled middle insomnia (waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to fall back to sleep). I usually don't sleep that long on weekdays on the best of days - about 5-6 hours - but I have always "caught up" by sleeping 8, 9, 10 hours on one day on the weekends. That's what keeps me (relatively) sane for many, many years. Without those blessed weekend days, I am feeling completely wired and exhausted at the same time.

Coming off meds sucks.

And it may not make sense to take another medication to deal with the side-effects, but when it is a physical dependence, I don't know when there will be an end in sight.

I just don't want to feel like I'm taking steps backwards. So, I have the prescription in my bag, I will not fill it for now, but I will know it is there.

As for the reproductive psych referral, I didn't ask him whether he did it last week, because I felt uncomfortable (see my post the other day on my trouble asking for thing - especially when it comes to doctors). But I thought about the comments you left, and I used them to work through all the icky feelings and just ask the simple question.

His answer? "I forgot".

Awesome. And now, you are reminded and I will be following up. (I even called the clinic today too... but - no answer there and I didn't want to leave a message. I felt like I couldn't call back. I will tomorrow).

Making a Fuss - When to Push

I'm not the kind of girl that sends the food back.

I think humans are split up into two groups: one group sends the food back, one group eats the food as-is. I'm in the latter group. It's not that I'm complacent, I'm just the kind of person that would rather eat cold food, or the wrong food, rather than bring on the awkwardness that I feel accompanies "making a fuss" at a restaurant. If I'm brought the wrong order, I honestly believe - in the moment - that it will be easier on everyone if I just suck it up and eat what I get. In theory, I know that telling someone they brought the wrong tray won't break their inner psyche, but in practice, I feel as though I'm making their world crash down if I say, "Excuse me, but I asked for a vegetarian sandwich, not a bacon wrap."

Why am I bringing this up? Because it's not just about food, although that's probably where it is quite noticeable, it's about every aspect of life - especially when it comes to health and health advocacy. I have never been a strong advocate for my health, both mental and physical. I also come from a stoic Scottish family who refuse to ask for help, so the odds are against me.

I didn't ask for a time line of how long it takes for the fertility clinic to book an appointment after a referral is made. I also asked my shrink a month ago for another referral to reproductive psychiatry, and he has not got back to me. Another doctor said he was going to ask a colleague a specific question about a specific medication I'm on, and he forgot to mention it last time I saw him, and I didn't bring it up. I don't want to be pushy about things, because that's just not what I do, but I'm realizing that for this journey that Devon and I are embarking on, we need a voice. Devon has been a really good advocate for me in the past, especially when it comes to my chronic pain that I've been dealing with, but I imagine (I know) that it becomes exausting for someone else to be the constant fighter, when you don't do any fighting for yourself. It's not really fair to ask.

With a mental illness, it's twofold. Your self-worth takes a hit, and that's why there are so many people with mental health issues that aren't getting help - unless you have a fighter close to you, you won't get the help you need, because you certainly aren't going to ask for the help yourself. All those years in hospital, I always thought that I was the most despicable patient in there, who was making nurses go out of their way to "treat" me, but in retrospect, I certainly wasn't a shit disturber, in fact, I was hardly asking for a thing. Despite being suicidal, I was actually really quite lovely. Figures...

I don't know whether TTCing is suited for people who don't fight. There will be lots of appointments, lots of doctors, lots of questions, and I'm not good with any of those. I had to get 7 vials of blood taken from me today to go through the fertility blood tests, and I couldn't even ask the lab tech whether she could take it from the other arm (knowing that it's near impossible to find a good vein in the arm she eventually took the samples from). I just don't know how to stick up for myself.

I envy those people who can just say what they mean, when it comes to service, and medicine. Those wonderful characters who can grab a waiter over and say, "Yeah, sooooo not what I ordered, so go get me the right meal, and just so you know, I'm not paying for it". Although they make me cower in shame if I'm with them, I do envy them... but I know there is a happy medium in there somewhere.

I just want to be respected through this journey. I don't want to wait for calls, but the alternative is not enticing: calling a clinic to ask how long they take to set up an appointment? No way! That's not what they're there for! They're there to make babies for worthy people! (I know, it sounds silly, but that's the dialogue that goes on in my head). I want to feel in charge of my health through this fertility journey. I'm so glad I have Devon to fight for me and us, but I need to be conscious of what I'm giving towards our advocacy.

It is my uterus, after all.

[Photo credit]

Hi my name is Lex and I'm a benzoholic

... or maybe not anymore!

[Oh, and by-the-way, you can call me Lex - it's been nice hiding behind the Crazy Lesbian Mom persona for a bit, but it just gets awkward, especially when I'm talking about my partner, Devon, and I don't even have a name. Plus, everybody - bloggy or not - deserves a name, right? So yeah, I'm Lex. Nice to meet you.]

Today marks the first day in thirteen years that I have not taken an anti-anxiety medication. I made the decision two months ago to stop taking them, for conceiving purposes and for long-term health, and I've weaned off between 1-.25mgs every couple of weeks. 

It hasn't been all sunshine and lollipops. But it hasn't been horrific. My mind and mood have been stable, it's my body that's been taking the hits. When you've been on an anti-anxiety for this long - especially when it is your entire adult life - your body becomes physically dependent. I've stayed awake all night because I just haven't felt tired (though I know I'm exhausted). I've been nauseous and my digestive system hasn't been, um, stellar.  My joints are swollen, my chronic pain has made an appearance again, I'm shaking, I've felt very flighty and not grounded at all, I pee 5 times during the night, and my liver aches. I now know exactly where my liver is. Very well.

My naturopathic doctor, who, for the sake of ease and brevity I call my Witch Doctor (with much respect for her practice), has been working very closely with me to help flush out the toxins which she says are affecting me so much. She says my body will be ready to start trying to conceive in two months. 

Devon has been amazing through all of this. She has always supported me, but she has just made it so easy to not have to worry about anything else while I'm going through the withdrawal.  My favourite part of today was opening my lunch and reading a note: "Congrats on being free". It's true, I feel very free.

I still have (hopefully only) a good two or three weeks of potential discomfort to go through, with the lack of sleep and general ickiness, but I hope so much that at the end of this, I can look back and be proud of this milestone.

Night vs. Light: The Eternal Battle

Today is the last day of my staycation. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm looking forward to going back to work - at the very least, for distraction.

It is dark. Depression is seeping in - not in the doses that have come crashing down on me from the past - but my mood has definitely dropped, I have been feeling really bad about myself (disgusted, even), and I'm in a little bit of denial, because I can't get depressed. I'm too tired to be depressed. I'm hoping getting thrown into a busy work schedule again will work against these stretched out, lonely hours. But it can go either way: It can be a great distraction, or it can just be an added thing that I can't handle. I'm hoping for the former. It has to be the former.

D and I have had a bit of a crappy week and have fallen back into a place where we don't like how we treat each other. Part of it has to do with just not keeping up with the great stuff we've learned from our months in therapy, and we both admit part of it has come from last week's baby talk, which was hard on both of us. We had a sort of come-to-Jesus meeting last night, and sorted some stuff out, and we're both feeling a lot better about things. We're back on track.

Although this week is really busy for D, and she's taking off to the States for work on Thursday for a couple of days, she told me last night that she hasn't forgotten that she owes me a conversation, which is coming... still coming...

When the time comes for said conversation, she has asked me to be completely objective. She has asked me to listen only, and to try not to react. She has asked me to listen as I would if I was her best friend, with no investment in the outcome of the conversation. Which I will do... I need to do... I just don't know how in the world I'll be able to yet. If I need to go stone cold and disassociate for a while, I will. If that's what it takes to get an answer, I will.

When we were away this weekend, just chatting about life in general, she said that if (with a huge emphasis on "if") we were to have children, she would want to hyphenate our last names - something we didn't do when we got married, for whatever reason.

So, there is hope. And, considering there is a lot of darkness right now too, I will take in that hope - I need to. While I was on a chairlift this weekend, I came up over a cliff on the mountain and the sun pounded on my face, and I welcomed the much needed light. I even took a picture of it to remind me that there is a light ahead - even if it looks like there is darkness all around it - there is always light.

Time to come off some meds...

                  [photo credit]

So, it's time to do some weaning. 

I've been on anti-anxieties for almost half my life, and I've decided that this month, I'm going to stop taking them. I am on a really low dose, and although they once really helped with my anxiety, I recognize that my dependence is mostly physical. The meds help me sleep, and sleep is one of the most important things for me to get to keep me from spiraling into a deep depression. They do very little - if anything - for my actual anxiety and mood.

Anti-anxiety medication is supposed to be prescribed for short-term use. Full stop. [The University of British Columbia published a media release on an interesting study about long-term use]. But when you're institutionalized as a teenager, with no real hope of getting out, I think doctors do whatever they can to treat you in the moment. And my moments were awful. I don't blame my docs; it's not like the anger and resentment I hold from receiving electro-convulsive (shock) therapy and losing 15 years of memory... this was something that was a quick-fix. I get it. I was dying. Or wanted to.

And now I'm not dying, nor do I want to. I'm doing this for me, but I'm also thinking long-term with medication and pregnancy. Out of the meds I'm on, this one is the one that I don't need for it's purpose, and it's one of the most harmful to a fetus. It's probably the best one to come off first. My plan is to come off the benzos completely, and cut down on the others (see my Happy Mommy, Happy Baby post for the logistics of what needs to happen / my ethical stand-point on medication and pregnancy). If I happen to be able to come off any other medication - all the better. But I also need to stay healthy.

I have some low-stress time coming up. I'm off work the week between Christmas and New Years, back at work for just over a week, and then off for a stay-cation for two weeks in January. This means that if I'm up in the middle of the night staring at the ceiling because I can't sleep, dealing with night sweats and little panic attacks, and god knows what else, it won't be as detrimental as it would be if I had to get up at 5:30 am every day to go to work. 

I'm scared. There has been two other occasions in my relatively recent past where I've attempted to come off some meds. One was pretty successful, despite the extremely low energy and the added 20 pounds. The other time was horrific. I was on disability assistance and in part-time school at the time; I locked myself in my apartment, letting only my then-roommate (who actually ended up being my partner for a year) come near me. I puked every day. I couldn't eat. I sweat through all of my clothes, but couldn't stop shivering. I didn't sleep for four weeks. I hallucinated. I punched through walls in frustration and broke my hand. And the sad part was, I totally shouldn't have come off that medication at that time of my life, but I told myself that being on it was a weakness. I fell into the stigma trap, knowing full well (theoretically) that I needed those meds as much as a diabetic needs insulin. But there's the age old debate...

When I was 20, I was on ten psychiatric medications at a time. I'm not exaggerating. I've always had treatment-resistant depression, but ironically, I was being over-treated. I don't remember life before Monday to Sunday pill boxes, taken morning and night. That's been my life. And still, even though I go out and do public speaking gigs where I talk to people about the stigma of mental illness, I still feel a sense of shame that I can't "just come off" my meds. 

It's more complicated than that.

So I'm taking it one step at a time, extremely strategically, and under the guidance of my awesome shrink. It will work, and I will be okay. It will be hard, but it's one step... and one step of many that I'm committed to take throughout this process.

With any luck, by Valentine's Day (or maybe sooner), I will be anti-anxiety free. And hopefully anxiety free.

Now that's a heart-racing, loving thought.

 

                [photo credit]

TTC is hard to see; poetry is easy.

Today, I've been reading all of the blogs I follow (on my blogroll and through Google Reader). There are some really positive ones, written by people I couldn't be happier for: couples who've just conceived, couples who are basking in the delights of new parenthood... but then there are endless entries from women who are at their wits ends with this whole TTC thing (I won't list them out of respect for their privacy and pain).

Their honesty has got me thinking about my own journey, which has hardly begun, and make me question whether I'll be able to stay sane through the process. Knowing my health isn't great on the best of days - will I be able to do this? 

I don't even know whether I'll be able to go on fertility meds with the meds I'm currently on. I don't know how screwing with my hormones is going to screw with my head. Fuck, I don't even know if my partner still wants to have a baby with me... whether we'll even go down that road. 

The process excites me, but freaks me out beyond belief. I feel like on top of the mad journey of TTC, I have so much else going on. So should we even start trying? Perhaps I'm writing this, and doubting myself, because I am still in my pajamas on a Saturday at 3:00 p.m., after sleeping for 10 hours because work is killing me right now, and I need a break. 

How the hell am I ever going to get by without sleep, stressed out about getting pregnant, or up every hour with a new baby? Does this innate parenting thing kick in that makes it possible? I'm not not looking forward to it - I know it will be worth it all... I just worry about post-partum depression, and though my shrink is confident that the odds aren't high enough for me to worry about, that's what I do: I worry.

I have a good friend who has a 7-year-old daughter (pregnant on the first date with her now husband). She's a wonderful mom, and she wants me to be a mom, but she says nobody tells you how much you worry. Granted, she's a bit of a helicopter mom whose child can do absolutely no wrong, but if I'm a worrier by nature, what will that translate into when motherhood arrives?

I work at a Children's Hospital, which is wonderful and sad. I see kids every day who are sick, and I can't help but wonder whether my health will affect my baby's. You see? My partner and I haven't even decided on whether we're going to get pregnant yet, and I'm already worrying about the health of my baby. Lord knows that if we do start this journey, our baby may not come for years. Can I keep up the worrying for that long, or will I just worry about something else in the meantime? Probably.

But then there's this other part of me that *knows* I'm going to be an incredible mom. I just know me... and I know, no matter what the circumstances, I will thrive. Maybe that's what gives me hope and is pulling me through.

D and I have less than a month and a half before we can start talking baby again (therapist helped us make a deal that we'd drop the subject for 3 months so that we could work on "us" first). 

I was flipping through my menstrual calendar app on my iPhone - amazing little things - and my birthday is in a few months. On the calendar, there is a big, dark box around my birthday: it is the day of the month that is my best chance of conceiving. Last year on my birthday, I told D that I wanted to be pregnant by this birthday coming up... that's nowhere near happening. 

But thank you, Apple, for reminding me of the cruel irony that for my birthday, I *could* be in a clinic office, with the possibility of conceiving on that very day, but instead, I will be worrying... about something, I'm sure.

I suppose I didn't have to download the app, eh?

 (Photo credit: here. And no, that's not my real birthday, nor my real cycle).

The New Girl (and a thank you)

I'm new to all of this. New to a community who wants, is trying, or has expanded a single life or partnership into a family. New to a community who is versed in the conception lingo - TTC, IVF, HPT, 2WW... and a whole bunch of others that I've yet to learn. New to a community who are lesbians. That's right, I don't really even have "real life" close lesbian friends.

I don't live in a small town and I'm not sheltered by any means. I know gay people; I have gay friends. It's just that I don't make a point of making more gay friends for the sake of making gay friends. People come into my life as-is and I start relationships as-is, regardless of gender, sexuality, faith or age. I don't have a lesbian community, and until recently, haven't really felt the "need" to have one. I am just gay and living my life; nothing to see here. I married for love, not politics. I want equal rights, but I am not the woman you'll see marching with a flag in my hand to fight for them. I'm blessed to live in a country where I got to marry the woman I love by getting the same marriage license as the straight couple in the line in front of us at the local drug store. (Yay Canada!).

I haven't felt the need to seek a community, until now. When I first got serious about putting my dreams of being a mom into actions, I went online to read - to see how others have done it. And now, I'm scratching the surface... I started to blog about the beginning of my journey into motherhood, but I honestly feel as though I've been a bit of an imposter.

Life got in the way. Relationship troubles have put the baby plans on the shelf for the time being. Chronic pain has stopped me from starting the process of having a baby. My mental health has made the baby take the back seat. But, that is life. That's my life.

My wife doesn't know about this blog. It's not that I'm hiding it from her - I will show her next year, when we are "allowed" to talk about babies (according to our therapist and our decision). We made a deal that I would not pressure her to walk this road with me for three months, as long as she could tell me in January whether she's truly committed and ready for this whole TTC journey (an abbreviation I will have to explain to her). The next three months, we focus on us.

She bought us books last year to get ready. She dreamed with me about parenting. She thought up baby names with me. And then our relationship took a hit, and dreaming got put aside so that healing could start. And that's okay. I'm actually grateful for it; although this whole not knowing is tough, I recognize that I have an incredible woman who, regardless of whether it's just us and our cats, or us and our cats and a dog and a baby, I want to be with, am lucky to have, and can't wait to live my life with her.

So, for all of you who are ahead of me in the family or trying-for-a-family department, I just want to thank you for paving the way, for writing so honestly and openly about being lesbians and starting families - or having trouble starting families. I will join you soon, and I can't wait. I know very few of your names. But I'm getting to know many initials and nicknames, URLs, and some of your beautiful families through photos. I read every comment you write and truly appreciate the time you take to read, and feel supported by your responses. I feel as though I'm building a strong foundation before starting off on a treacherous and exciting journey, and that foundation  - this community - is vital. (I almost feel as though I'm coming out of the closet again).

For now, I hope that you'll let me be a part of your community: one that I'm realizing is stronger than I'd ever imagined would be out there. You are inspiring, you make me laugh, you make me cry, and I want to be like you. One day, I will be like you. I'm already on my way there.

[photo credit]

Head, heart, and health

I’ve been to see my GP more than enough times over the past 3 and a half years. I’ve been to rheumatologists. I’ve been to neurologists. I’ve been to orthopedic surgeons. I’ve been to chronic pain clinics. I’ve seen shrinks. I’ve been to chiropractors and physiotherapists. I’ve changed my shoes. I got orthotics. I’ve had blood panels. I’ve had a full-body MRI. I’ve had a nuclear medicine bone scan. I’ve had CT scans. I’ve more than enough X-rays. I’ve had an EEG and numerous brain tests. I had “experimental” surgery this summer.

Nothing has worked.

Three and a half year ago, the dull pain in both of my feet turned into sharp pain that has taken away the possibility of activity in my life. I can’t go grocery shopping without being in constant pain. I can’t stand and wash the dishes without constant pain. I certainly can’t exercise without constant pain. I can hardly get by doing a desk job without constant pain. I am a completely different person than the woman I was when I could just “be” without pain.

But pain has become interweaved with my life now. It’s just there. And nobody knows why. There is nothing physiologically wrong with me (so far). It is not psychosomatic (according to more than two psychiatrists). It is inexplicable major chronic pain that has essentially taken my health away from me.

The sad thing? I do not have any mobility and my physical health is taking a big hit. I can’t do anything I used to be able to do. And yet, even though I am immobile and in constant pain, my physical ailment has nothing on depression. Having gone through both physical and psychological illnesses, mental illness wins in the “what’s worse” category.

I have to get back to work, as my lunch hour (where I’ve been stuck at my desk because the pain is especially bad today) is almost done. Though I will revisit this pain issue and how it has shaped the dream of having a baby… and how my mental health has teamed up with my physical health to make this an especially hard journey…

Twins, Triplets: What's One More?

I just spent a lovely evening with my best friend, looking after her sister's five-month-old twins. One boy, one girl. Perfect. One shot and bam! - instant family.

I'm sure every reader who has twins or multiples is saying "oh god it's not that simple". And no, just having to change the boy's diaper while keeping an eye on the girl while my friend was in the washroom - I cannot imagine what it would be like to raise two babies at once. Two times the madness... but two times the love as well. Even two nipples ain't going to make the job that easy.

The babies are so different from each other. Physically, the girl looks like mum and the boy looks like dad. The boy giggles and smiles and dances and the girl is low-key, relaxed, a little less emotive and holy crap she's pudgy! They were actually a C-section just because the girl was almost 3 pounds bigger than the boy in the womb, and stealing all his nutrients. Hopefully (or not), she'll grow into her cheeks.

It made me think about the odds when couples are TTC. With the hormones, the potential meds, the clinical aspect, cleaning sperm so only the goodies can swim, making it the perfect place for conception. A lot of the moms I've read blog of have multiples. Does anyone know what the stats are? For any fertility treatments? IVF? Good ol' shoot 'em up turkey baster style?

Makes me think that the odds would be higher when I try to conceive. Can a woman who struggles with mental health, low energy, and pain really take care of two babies, let alone one? But the cards will fall where they fall, and I imagine that if it were meant to be that I somehow conceived twins or triplets, I'd just have to fucking figure it out like everyone else who is in the same boat does.

These twins tonight were so good and well behaved. The boy cried for about 30 seconds after I put him to bed. Everything was so easy... and then I thought about the other 21 hours of the day. What does mum have to go through to keep herself sane?

That's when I'm grateful I would have a supportive family nearby if I am going to have a baby. I don't know whether I could go forward on this journey without my mum around. I just wish she hadn't recently moved a ferry ride away.

Oh well, there's time. Perhaps too much time. Especially as I set the clock back tonight.

Preggo with a capital EGO

I've been spending more time than usual with one of my best friends. I don't know if it's just pure circumstance, or because she's pregnant and her husband is sick of hearing about it and/or she just wants to talk and talk and talk about it, and I happen to be around.

We've been friends since we were fourteen, and she's stayed with me through my crazy days, visiting me in psych wards religiously and just generally keeping an eye out for me when my eyes were full of pain. She's a great woman, wonderful at her job (social work with families) and I am genuinely happy for her. She and her husband are fabulous, and they're going to be amazing parents.

But here's the thing: since she made the announcement, nothing else in the world matters. And I completely understand that being pregnant - especially for the first time - is one of the most exciting things in the world, but there's a line, and I think she's crossed it.

She was barely three months pregnant when we had a particular dinner, which was interrupted every ten minutes because "the baby is pushing on my bladder". After said meal, she took my hand and put it on the top of her stomach, just underneath her breasts, saying that her baby makes this area feel harder after she eats. Now, if I'm not mistaken, a fetus at 12 weeks is about 2 inches, or the size of a small plum:

  

If you want to see it inside of you, in relation to all the girlie parts around it, according to BabyCenter, this is what a 12 week fetus looks like:

Is that really anywhere near her breasts? Not so much...

Now, I'm not saying that this size is not significant. This is the kind of thing Pro Life activists use to keep people from having abortions. This is a living creature growing inside of you, and it's an amazing thing.

Because she won't stop talking about it, and because I'm curious and can't wait to feel it myself, I ask her, "Can you feel it?" And she replies, "well, no; not yet... but I hear I'm going to feel butterflies soon."

I love her to pieces, I really do. But out of all of my friends, she is the one that knows how badly I want to get pregnant, and by no means am I asking her to hold back her excitement because I'm not where she is... but I wake up every morning to a text from her about a dream she had about a baby, or log into Facebook where she has already posted a "belly pic" profile shot (none of her friends have the guts to tell her that HER gut might just be a "generous" gut, without the baby's help) and is endlessly posting status updates about how her baby is doing today.

It took her and her husband two months of trying before she got pregnant, and they were "so worried" that they'd never be able to conceive, considering "it took that long". I have no idea what it's going to be like when my partner and I are trying to conceive with frozen sperm and a bunch of towels under my ass, getting injected by near-strangers in a clinic, staring at the ceiling and hoping one of the anonymous sperms is a good swimmer. Will it take 2 months? 2 years? Will it happen at all? Will I turn to her then? I don't know...

So while I'm ecstatic for her and her little plum, it's tough to listen to her go on and on about it. She gets to do this, and so far, she gets to do this so easily. I get that I'm jealous of her and I understand that it's okay to be, especially when I *am* happy for her deep down, but I don't know how many more coffee dates or walks we can take where I take a backseat and listen to how her life is evolving right in front of her - literally - while I feel as though I'm as frozen in the process as the frozen sperm that's potentially going to be involved in the conception of my (hopefully) future child.

I'm at the age where a lot of my friends are getting pregnant and having babies. It's tough and it's beautiful and it's inspiring and fucking frustrating. I can't make my breeding friends stop (and why would I try?) and at this point, I can't get my partner to move forward with our plan - because we lost our plan - so I feel as though I'm in limbo, surfing around in some sticky muck that may look a little like amniotic fluid, but with none of the nourishment or protection.

Empty.

It Gets Better Project

Yesterday’s post was ridiculously self-absorbed and I had dreams last night of people coming at me wearing this T-Shirt:

[photo credit]

So, today, enough about me and more about the It Gets Better Project (and my sincere apologies for having my head shoved up my ass). I haven’t had a chance to fully explore the entire site, but the concept is amazing, and it’s something that needs to be done. Though I wasn’t suicidal in my teens because I was gay, I was suicidal in my teens… and nobody should have to go through that.

I am a long-time reader of Savage Love and now an avid listener of Savage Love Podcasts. Despite his often crude approach, Dan Savage has some brilliant insight into love, sex, sexuality, acceptance, and life. It takes a strong man to talk about what he talks about, when he’s up against conservative douches that no doubt were often the bullies he faced when he was younger.

Dan posted his own video with his husband, Terry, and for me, it totally personalized him from his usual harsh and witty self, and just made him a human gay being. Someone to relate to. Someone who, hopefully, some young gay kid out there will relate to, and will be inspired that life does get better… even if you are bullied in school for being gay.

Despite my mental illness during high school, I was never bullied. Mostly because I was good at putting on a face. I just succeeded in everything I did and was good to people, and luckily they were good back. Had I come out in high school, maybe things would be different. But I didn’t even know I was gay until I was in my early twenties (though in retrospect, I was head-over-heels in love with my grade 4 teacher, but really, who isn’t?)

Kids need more support. I am a huge supporter of children and youth who suffer from psychiatric disorders, and I’ve done videos and spoken at events and offered my support to individuals, and it has paid off big-time. These kids are starving for people to relate to, and are just looking out for that person who got through what they’re going through.

When I was a kid, I never in my life imagined living past 21. I just couldn’t fathom it. Now, I am functioning, happy (in spite of many adversities), and am blessed with amazing family and friends. Life is good.

Let’s help these kids out.

Holding On...

I haven't even visited my own blog since the last time I wrote - haven't checked the email associated with it, haven't really thought about it. Why would I? It's a blog devoted to a woman and her wife who are trying to conceive, who are creating a family. A blog devoted to the special challenges that mental health and pregnancy brings. A blog devoted to my thoughts, read by nobody (or so I thought).

I was surprised to see that three people commented on my last post. And three might not seem like much, but it was so much for me. I didn't even see them until now, but I am so thankful for the words of encouragement from the three of you, to someone you don't know. I know it's the blogosphere, and it's easy to leave comments without really thinking about it, but these seemed genuine and personal, and for that, I thank you.

My marriage is going okay. It's actually going well. We are definitely heading in the right direction, thanks to the fact that we are both good talkers and listeners, and are very eager to improve on our respective selves. That, coupled with a good therapist and some great friends, has got us through this rough patch. And it wasn't just a little slip - there was talk of ending, leaving, and it was one of the scariest times of my life.

As I wrote in my last blog, I asked D about whether or not she still wanted kids, and she said "give me a while," which I did, and then I went even more crazy, because I feel as though I need to know either yes or no, so I can either plan or mourn, depending.

It has always been a tough subject to bring up, but it's been especially so since our crash (as I'm calling it). It makes me so anxious not knowing, and it makes her so anxious to even think about the possibility right now. My mood has been affected by not being able to plan, and by her reactions to me suggesting that this is something I need to know about right now.

But that's unfair. A lot of this is unfair. And as much as having a baby is one of the most important things to me (which is okay), my first priority is healing my relationship. I can't lose her. I may lose the ideal of a baby, but what's the use if I don't have a happy, healthy home to bring a child into? I don't want to be a single mom. I don't want to get (even more) depressed. I don't think I can raise a child on my own. I don't want to raise a child on my own. I want this to be something D and I can share and go through and enjoy and experience and plan.

But the plan is on hold and I'm holding on.

We made a deal in therapy today: we are to put the baby talk aside and focus on living in the "here and now". Does that frighten the hell out of me? Yeah, but I know that this is what D needs. And this is what we need - to have this huge "subject" out of the other issues we can fix on and build - so that we can live and love and breathe and be. Together.

The deal has a time limit, which I guess is my side of the bargain. I can't talk about it at all (with D), until January 1st next year. And while that seems on the surface like an impossible task, it's actually okay... I don't know how to turn the baby thinking "off" (can you?), but I know that my first priority is to heal my marriage.

So, I may post here to get my thoughts out... I don't know. But here is no "Mom" in this Crazy Lesbian Mom blog yet, but that doesn't mean I can't write.

And for anyone reading who has any advice: How do you shush up the "oh-my-god-if-i-don't-talk-about-it-i'm-going-to-die" thinking?

Happy Mommy, Happy Baby...

I haven't blogged in a long time, partly because of being busy, but mostly because I've been privately mourning the loss of something that does not exist.

I let my faith waiver, and after my appointment with reproductive psych - regardless of the fact that it was "information gathering" - I came to the almost 100% conclusion that I would never carry a child. And what does my profile say? Crazy lesbian mom. I'd be the crazy. I'd even be the lesbian. But a mom? No...

And I *was* opening up to adoption, so yeah, I would be the mom, just not the way I've envisioned it for years. In fact, I still think that adoption would be a viable and perhaps even easier way to go when it comes to D and I having a family.

Okay, I'm just going to jump right into it: I got the "okay" to carry a baby - healthily and (let's hope) happily. D and I had gone to repro psych, and done our own research on medications, depression and pregnancy. I think both of us didn't get our hopes up, because I promised D that I wouldn't carry if the risks outweighed the benefits (if it were up to me, I'd put myself at risk, but I really don't want D to have to care for a baby and a depressed mother... 2 babies).

So we finally went to my shrink, who has been my shrink for over a decade, and gathered some information from him. He basically looked at us and said "go make a baby" ... Yes, there are more risks, but they are not astronomical. I can stay on some medications and the baby will be okay. I will be okay. 

We both looked at him like he was just playing with us, and he said something which I sometimes forget: "You were really really sick, but that was years ago... you are a completely different woman, have an incredible support system, and are capable of so much" (I'm paraphrasing, but you catch my drift).

It was in the past, and though I struggle now with little dips, it is not these vast valleys of blackness that I used to drown in. I am healthy - not as healthy as a lot of people - but in the grand scheme of things, I am healthy.

He made a parallel to a pregnant woman taking medication for diabetes. Yeah, it's healthier not to be taking medication when you're pregnant, but people have to. His main message: "Happy Mommy, Happy Baby..." If I can stay on some medication that keeps me sane, and if my fetus isn't at some huge risk of anything life-threatening or disabling, I have faith that we can all do this - D, me and baby-to-be.

Average women who have average pregnancies can have babies with a lot of health problems. And not to say it wouldn't be awful to have a disabled baby, but we'd deal with it when we would have to deal with it. It makes me a bit nervous that yes - there are a few risks, but for instance, one of the biggest one (as a result of one anti-depressant) is a cleft palate, which is normally a .8% chance in babies, and would now be a 1% chance. 

Am I willing to take that 1% chance? Hellz yeah!

I couldn't believe it. I left the office and it still hasn't really sunk in yet. We can do this. I can have my dream. I can be pregnant - I CAN BE PREGNANT! Still in shock... good shock... And what's even better is D's reaction. I expected her to still be a little hesitant, but she's ecstatic too - and that means more than the world to me. I asked her "what next?" and she said, "look up fertility clinics!"

I know it's one doctor. But he's one of the best doctors in Canada. Seriously... I totally trust him, and he has complete faith that this will actually be in my best interest - he said that I may even feel a peace when I'm pregnant that I've never felt before - that some of the hormones may actually be extremely good for me. And as for post-partum, my chances are a hell of a lot lower than I expected. And, if I happen to fall into a depression: a) I know when I'm depressed, and after many years, know when I need to get help, and b) As I said, I have the best doctor in Canada, and he will be there, with a plan, when I need him. 

D is contacting some lesbian friends of ours who have had one child through IVF or artificial insemination (not sure) and their second through a surrogate. Other friends (another lesbian couple) will be having their little girl in mere days - and they did AI. We have many straight friends that have used clinics in our city, and I've been doing some research on those. Oddly enough, there actually aren't as many as I would've thought. But I guess it only takes one...

I am so freakin' excited. I want to do it NOW. But first, I have to deal with my chronic pain. I have a surgery assessment soon and will hopefully have some answers within the next few months. Once that is clear out of the way, we are going to barrel straight ahead.

Now... just one question: Who the hell's sperm are we going to use???

[photo credit]

Flash Forward

I’m exhausted. My partner is exhausted. We’re both just drained, and all from one conversation. 

After the appointment at Repro Psych, I admit I totally shut down and wasn’t really communicating all that well. I took my partner’s earlier request that “baby talk” didn’t take over our lives to heart and instead, said nothing. Plus, it was my birthday and I didn’t want to think about pregnancy, medication, surrogacy, adoption, or childlessness. But in the back of my mind, it never went away. It never does.

My partner… let’s call her “D” for simplicities sake… wanted answers. Is being pregnant and carrying my own child more important that parenting a child? I threw around an answer in my head, but never verbalized it until last night.
I see pregnancy and actually “obtaining” a child as two very separate things (obtaining is such a horrible word, but I guess “having” a child may suggest actually birthing one). My hormones are crazy; the intensity of these urges that seem to jump out of my empty womb are ridiculously hard to ignore. Biology is of course part of that… D has never in her life had an urge anywhere close to that, and I don’t expect her to understand. I just wish she could sometimes.
I want contact with my unborn child. I want it to be completely dependent on me. I want to make an attachment with something that is growing inside of me. I want to hold out the baby when it is born and say “look what I made.”
 
When surrogacy was brought up as an option, at first I thought it would be my second choice (if we had the money). But now that I’ve been thinking of it – it’s not the genetics. I don’t actually care – at this moment at least – about whether I’m genetically linked to my child. I don’t want someone else to grow my child inside of them. I fear if we go that route, my need (and I really do think of it as a NEED) to carry a baby will not be fulfilled. 

Maybe it will be option #3.

And then there is adoption. If we were to adopt, I would want a newborn. D told me that she is sad that we don’t agree on adoption. She would be happy to raise an older child – give a child a chance after adversities that he or she has had to face, and welcome them into a healthy, happy home. I would love to say that I’m that woman who could and would do that. But I’m not.
This isn’t altruistic, this is selfish. 

And all I can think about is how shitty it is that I can’t get all I’ve ever wanted, because a) I’m a lesbian, b) I’m crazy, c) I have chronic pain issues, and d) D and I can’t agree on what our lives are going to look like.

She ended the conversation with “Maybe I don’t even want a kid.” I looked at the floor, I imagined us in our 50s and 60s without child, and I realized that that life may be exactly the life we’re heading for…

Who Makes The First Call?

It’s Saturday and beautiful outside and all we want to do is relax and do nothing inside. We tend to be that way more often than not. I’ve had some physical health issues that have kept me pretty stationary, and we’re waiting on some test results to see what it is. It’s a chronic condition, and I admit I’ve been less proactive than I should be about getting to the bottom of this. Is it wrong that it was only until my partner said that she’d only take the next step to baby-dom once I’d dealt with my pain that it became one of the most important things on my list to do?

The house is a bit of a mess. It kind of always is. We both work really long hours and don’t get home until late, and the last thing we want to do is clean. We’re really good at deciding what it is that we want to do – worse about actually doing it. We talk but don’t act. I’m realizing that in order to a) get/remain healthy (both physically and mentally) and b) actually get pregnant and have a baby, I’m going to have to become someone who is ultra proactive, kind of pushy, and a little big aggressive. This journey is not going to be a walk in the park.

My shrink put in a referral for my partner and me to visit a clinic that deals with reproductive mental health. I think they mostly work with people who are actually pregnant that have developed mental health issues, or that have post-partum, but we’re hoping that they will be able to tell us whether I’ll be able to carry, and if so, what I’ll need to do (medication-wise) to do so healthily.

I really really want to go, but I’m terrified. I am putting off the possibility of hearing the words “it’s not safe enough.” It definitely hasn’t been the first step in this journey (there is a lot that had to/has to happen in my relationship for this baby), but it’s sort of the first “official” step, after the initial awkward conversation with my very conservative and very religious psychiatrist.

Speaking of my shrink – he is awesome at what he does. Like award-winning awesome. And I totally trust that he could have taken this on himself, but I think my partner initially needed a second opinion. If it was completely up to me, I think I’d risk my health to any degree to get pregnant and have a baby, but I know that’s not right. It’s not fair to anyone, especially my partner, who doesn’t want to have to be responsible and care for two infants. I can’t blame her for that.

I’m also terrified that even if we get the medical okay from the shrink experts, the reproductive clinic will turn us away. From what I’ve read, you have to be pretty damn healthy for them to shoot some boys up into you.

Anyway, as I was saying: We are say-ers and not do-ers. Does that change when you have an infant on the way? Do you dust the house to keep the air clean for their little lungs? Do you sweep the floors so that their little hands don’t pick up any lint balls to put in their mouths? Do you tidy everything off the living room coffee table so that they don’t take anything off that might hurt their tiny little selves? Does a baby make you change your bad habits?

Do I wait for the clinic to call me, or do I make the phone call myself?

An Introduction

Okay, so I’m not a mom yet, but I want to be. 

Crazy – yes. Lesbian – yes. So let’s define the latter two. 

Lesbian: Easy definition. I am a woman who likes other women. In fact, I’m married to the most gorgeous and amazing woman I have ever met, and I’m incredibly lucky.

Crazy: I call myself crazy because I’ve struggled with depression for the better (worse) half of my life. Like not just your “normal” depression, but your institutionalized, heavily medicated depression. The kind where they keep you in isolation on suicide watch, and when they don’t know what to do with you anymore, they shock your brains out with way too much ECT (Electro-Convulsive Therapy). 

Now before you send the social workers, hear me out - I’m better. I haven’t had a depressive episode in years. I still take medication for my mental health, but I am going to do everything I have to do to make it so I’ll be able to carry a baby safely for both mother and child, as well as my partner, who will be extremely involved in the process. (Side note: I know that I have a picture of a coffee cup on my blog template. Trust that I’ll be switching to water when the time comes)

Why don’t we adopt? Maybe we will… but before we check out that option, I have to follow through on something I feel strongly about. I have wanted a baby for as long as I remember. Like since I was three years old. I’ve wanted to carry a child in my belly. I get those crazy hormonal urges where my belly literally aches to be filled. 

My greatest fear is to wake up when my eggs are old and realize I’ve missed out on the most important gift of my life. I envy those women who can roll around in the sack for 10 minutes and bam! - they’re preggers (no disrespect to you, just sayin’). 

I expect I will come across some people online who may be incredibly unsupportive of what I’m setting out to do. To you, I want to say that I respect your beliefs, but I have ultimate faith in mine.  For the safety of my family, I am keeping my identity hidden and comments will be moderated. That said, I am happy to be in contact with anyone who would like to share stories and experiences.

I didn’t choose to be a lesbian; I fell in love with the woman of my dreams. I also didn’t choose to be crazy, and it’s not fair that as a result of these obstacles, my dream of being a mother may be an excruciatingly difficult journey to bring to life – but a journey I want to, and have to make. 

So, this blog is a place where I will be writing about my journey to become a mother: From how it affects my marriage, my health, my family, my baby’s health, my community, and the rest of my life.

And perhaps, at the end of this journey, I will be able to post a baby picture of our child.