Walking Dead? meet my friend, Bob

2011 has been somewhat of a horror movie so far. Anything that can go wrong, has.
My humor, which is my saving grace when I’m stressed, has taken a beating of epic proportions. I am finding it hard to even crack a smile.
Work has not let up. I am panicking at the thought of having to stay in my current role. It’s a long story, but let me net it out for you… I pursued a dream job in my current company that I *almost* received, only for it to fall through.  I did this after I refused to interview for a promotion in my current area that would have been a done deal. I made a leap into the unknown, brave at the time, and the joke was on me. I’m now stuck in a job with a scarlet letter on my chest… and no new job in sight to free me of the bridges I inadvertently burned. Professionally burned, mind you, but damaged nonetheless.

Meanwhile, S. Is having his own woes, and there’s little I can do. I can’t even get into it. It makes me cry.

The stress in our house is reaching maximum overload. Stress makes me sleep. And eat.  And mutter one word phrases and unidentifiable sounds. 
Much like a zombie without the blood and guts.
In an effort to regain some semblance of order, I decided to do what I do best… find control… somewhere.   For the 1874627th time I embarked on a new diet lifestyle change. The diet is a no-brainer, but I am continually befuddled at my inability to create any lasting exercise routine. Last week I met with my personal trainer, Bob Harper. Yes, from that TV show. Did I mention he came in a box?

I had high hopes opening my new BL Challenge game for the Wii (a Christmas gift from me to me). I booted that bad boy up and my mad exercising skillz were put to the test.

I am an oaf, it seems. Bob booted me from his test and suggested I take a remedial course on learning to breathe before entering his world. Then I attempted to set up a profile and come back the next day to beg Bob to train me. Turns out I needed a fabric tape measure to record the size of my neck and my insanely large hips. among other things. And I don’t own a fabric tape measure. Who owns a fabric tape measure?? Heck, I’m lucky I even own a scale that hasn’t reached the garbage can. Why don’t they include a freaking paper tape measure in the box? I mean, really… Is that too much to ask?? A slip of paper????
Further demoralizing, my weight flashed on the screen mocking me. And then I sat down on my Wii board and cried. Bob did not even console me because my screen was locked AND I didn’t have a tape measure. I turned off the game and bitched and moaned for an hour.

The week has gone downhill ever since. And… I am pretty sure that I have broken up with Bob.

I have control of nothing in life.

Not one thing.


This past Monday was quite a day. I should have known it would be a fitting beginning to another step forward in the healing process. I woke up to the windows rattling, and rain pelting against the glass. It was the kind of day best served not opening your eyes at all, but rather a day where you pull the covers up over your head and sleep in.

I returned from driving David to the bus stop. Soaking wet… umbrellas aren’t very handy when 50 MPH winds are mocking you. After the garage door was closed, the wind whistled between the open gaps and made an eerie sound. I fully expected the house to lift into the air and be whisked to The Emerald City. Then, a brief roll of thunder- weird and unexpected on a January day in NJ. As I drove to meet Anne, (not her real name) my therapist, it was raining buckets.


It was a mostly one-sided conversation… her getting to know me. When she did speak, it was kind, and deliberate. After she got the big picture as to why I ended up in her office, she stopped and said… “I want you to know I do understand your feelings. I myself experienced primary infertility, and after 7 years of heartache I stopped treatment and I adopted my little girl a few years ago.”

Pin drop.

and then, a big sigh of relief swelled up in my body.

This is someone who understands, who “gets it” AND can help me.

I didn’t even wince writing out a check at the end of the session. Although it does feel a little weird to be PAYING to talk to someone, and even weirder trying to sum up my failures in 45 minutes.

Curiously, when she gave me my receipt on the way out I noticed it had a field for my insurance company (NOTE to self- figure out if I can get this covered) which had a hand-written note:

Diagnosis: Adjustment Disorder

For five years, I have been “unexplained” in the realm of infertility. Talk about an open-ended diagnosis. It mocks you. It provides no explanation other than the unexplained. I am my own mystery. We will sooner find truth to the existence of aliens in space before we ever find out what happened to me.

Forcing that part to the side and looking at that new text left me with a thought…

If I am having trouble adjusting to my new life, then that certainly means that there will be a time when I can make peace with it and not carry the label to my grave.

This part of my healing is temporary and doesn’t define me.

At the end of the day, I am okay with that.

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