Yeah. Not pregnant. But I have a hard, hot, blackbluered bruise the size of a hen's egg on my forearm to show for everything. I know I'm not getting that much blood drawn. I know that if we were doing ivf I'd be getting poked far more often. But my veins have just about had it. They are in full rebellion and the phlebotomists are having to get creative, and creative leaves angry marks.
So last night me and my bruise received the results of the beta and found out just how twisted and sneaky a thing hope can be, and then we overate at dinner and spent the next 2 hours finding new ways to call myself fat. Good times. Good times.
Guess what? Despite all my medications and supplements and despite the fact that I fired my therapist (which really should make me feel better since I never really liked her anyway, but since I fired her without telling her that I was was firing her, kind of backfired if you know what I mean), and despite the fact that I have a really fucking cute kid and a wonderful partner, and despite the fact that I finally finished the Series of Unfortunate Events and nothing in my life has ever been as unfortunate and tragic as what happened to those poor Baudelaire orphans... I'm depressed.
Somewhere I read or heard or was told or, heck, maybe I made this up, anyway, it doesn't matter. Somehow I came across the thought that depression is anger turned inward. And it's been well documented to myself that I have a huge problem with anger. I don't know how to express it. Piss me off and you'll never know it. I'll probably be even sweeter to you. You know, in a sort of saccarine way that I hope will slowly corrode your soul and give you cancer of the psyche without you knowing what's really going on, but which actually just does that to me as the source of the carcinogenic cordiality and leaves the intended victim untouched.
So, in an effort to let some of that anger out, I present to you:
A Sure Way To Make Me Unbelievably Pissed At You Five Days Later When I Finally Get Around To Really Thinking About What You Said:
Compare my needing expensive medications to keep me sane, functional, and yes, ALIVE to your one-to-two packs a day addiction to cigarettes. Because OF COURSE they are EXACTLY the same FUCKING thing.
This is not to say that I hate smokers. I don't. I don't hate smokers. Smoke all you want, I'll even keep you company while you do it. But do not, DO NOT compare your decision to buy cigarettes instead of tampons one month because you were too poor to afford both to my agonizing dilemma two summers ago of how to pay my utilities AND pay nearly $200 a month for my antidepressants. If you do that I will be forced to smile at you sweetly and murmer some nonsense about how I understand your conundrum while little pieces of me turn black and die inside.
I may not be able to control what's happening or not happening in my reproductive system; I may not be able to control my daughter's teething; I may not be able to control that fucking clerk in Nevada who won't fucking fax the fucking documents I was asked to track down for a fucking deposition this morning; I may not be able to do anything about the fact that I accidentally uninstalled the driver for my computer's sound card and so now all the music and video that comes out of my computer sounds as if it were uttered by Alvin, Simon, and/or Theodore; but I can damn well make certain that you never get to eat my cheese fondue again.
Phew. I feel better now. Sorry to have subjected you all to that. It may have seem a bit extreme to severe a friendship because of one misguided anecdote, but that was just the proverbial straw. I'm better off without her in my life.
Now. What about you? Anything you need to kick to the curb? Feel free to vent on your own blogs or in my comments. Let's make this last day of November as full of vile sentiment and darkest anger as we can before we kick November itself to the curb. Because November sucks baboon balls.