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 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.
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.”
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.