My temperature plummeted today, which means my hormones levels are readjusting themselves at an alarming rate, which means there is a biological reason for me feeling as out of control as I do. At least that is what I keep telling myself.
This cycle was a total mindfuck. I’m not saying that to complain, I’m just stating a fact. I really truly thought I was pregnant, so much so that even after all the BFNs I still held out hope. And yet this morning I wasn’t surprised to the see the low temp. And yet I was still a little devastated. Hope is an endlessly tiring thing.
I have come to an important conclusion in the past few days: Depression and being home with a toddler do not mix well. They can be a panic inducing combination. The summer, something I used to look forward to with such enthusiasm, is suddenly an infinite stretch of time I can’t fathom surviving. And it’s not that I don’t want to be with my daughter, I do, but this depression, and the anxiety that comes with it, are making it hard for me to see what’s real and what’s not. I keep telling myself that I can get through this, and when I’m in the middle of the days it is doable, but the mornings, the waking up and the getting out of bed, is so hard. I find myself hyperventilating a little, just at the thought of it. I’m fairly certain Mi.Vida thinks I’ve lost my mind.
But being outside, and being with Isa (when she’s not melting down), do good things for me. I’m hoping that, as I move away from this mindfuck of a cycle, as I move toward the next try, as I start my writing classes, as I visit my friends, as I spend time in the sun, as I invest small moments in myself, as I read some good books, as I just slow down and take stock, I will get better. And if I don’t by my birthday, I will take more concrete steps to remedy this situation. I don’t deserve to be this miserable. I deserve to enjoy the life I have, and I will do what I need to do to achieve that.