Image via WikipediaI've not treated myself so well these last few days, not sleeping enough, living on junk and caffeine and anxiety. It's an awful cycle to get jacked up on junk, not be able to sleep, need more caffeine to function, never sleep, take pills to sleep, get more tired but too anxious and still awake.
So these last few nights when I was finally too tired to brain my school work, but too tired to sleep, I've been caught in this nasty loop of contemplating my infertility. THUD <-- (the sound of people who suddenly stopped reading and closed this page.)
I guess it flared up a few days ago when I heard some asinine comment about gay people not having valid marriages because they can't reproduce. I take that personally because, obviously, the same logic invalidates my marriage, right? I don't think it's too uncommon for women with infertility to get their self-worth all wrapped up in not being able to perform this very very basic biological function. Then you can throw God in the mix, and forget about it. God clearly felt me unworthy to reproduce, if he was involved in the process at all.
The facts of life are I won't partake of any more medical fertility treatment, and I've gotten cold feet about adoption. Adoption is awesome and noble, isn't it? People get so excited about it. I get excited because I always always knew I would do it. But suddenly I resent having to pay $20,000 for a baby. I resent it because I'm still mad I can't make one for free like everyone else. And I resent it for all the people who can't afford to spend $20k on a baby and therefor don't even have that option.
And then there's the truth of it. I don't want to get all deep in the process and then get rejected because there are too many things wrong with me.
The later it gets, the more indulgent my self-pity.
I'm starting to tell myself kids are too much trouble anyway. They would cut into our travel and I wouldn't be able to do all the "me" things I like to do. And they are messy. And geez, I'm 33 -- it would be forever before they'd be out of the way.
But then my in-laws would never be grandparents and who would wear the box full of baby clothes my mother-in-law has been knitting since Nick and I got married? Who would get our stuff when we die? Who would Nick teach about baseball? Who would I mess up with my neurosis so she eventually has to write a book about the years she spent in therapy? Oh oh, when we're in our 60s, who will spend holidays with us?
It's pretty pathetic, the idea of being the end of the line. Seems like you're supposed to leave a legacy of ideas or accomplishments to make up for it.
Now I'm thoroughly sleepy. I need some real rest to get up and do smart stuff tomorrow. Get my head screwed back on straight and be less depressive.