Runners Wall

It has been a less than ideal week. A chain of unfortunate events triggered by an unexpected tooth extraction and culminating in some gnarly medication interactions (oh Lithium, life would be so dull without you). I’ve pulled a back muscle and possibly an intercostal muscle vomiting. Because despite how much practice I have had, I puke like a savage hybrid of Linda Blair (in contrast to Hubster, who vomits like the Queen – dignified, silently, and very very rarely). The other night my kid woke up petrified because he thought there were monsters in the house.

There was, child. There was.

Anyway, so I’m chilling at home on my own today, shuffling around like Ozzy Osbourne and seriously contemplating the hole in my life that stone cookware and the “Ahh Bra” could fill. While attempting to be productive I decided to pay our bills and found all the prescriptions for our first injectable cycle next week.

And that’s about when I lost it.

I cried and cried. Which was not only painful (pulled muscles FTW!) but pretty unusual. I don’t really cry. As in truly cry, with tissues and red puffy eyes and snot and grossness, properly. Laugh inappropriately. Yes. Shed a few forlorn looking tears at appropriate moments. Perhaps. But not this gut wrenching howling shit. Thank God I was on my own. It was like Linda Blair all over again.

Then I realised that I’m just….tired. So tired. Emotionally that is. Though probably physically as well. My life for the past few years has been doctor, medication, hospital, repeat. I get the rare stuff. The weird side effect. I can’t even bloody well go and get a tooth extracted without all sorts of drama. I just want it all to go away.

I have hit the runners wall.

Why can’t my body cooperate? Why can’t I do something crazy, like, ya know, eat a piece of bread, without consequence. Why can’t I be one those women who just decide they want a baby, then BAM 9 months later they are presented with a squishy newborn? Who feel joy when they see a positive pregnancy test, not dread..already preparing to lose it. Why do I have to start this journey of invasive treatment when I have already had so much medical intervention? Why do I have to spend this extortinate amount of money on something that has around a 50% success rate – maybe less. In what other universe would we pay thousands of dollars for something we may not receive? Or that we may lose afterwards anyway?

Hope. That’s why.

Last weekend Hubster and I went to the clinic so I could learn how to inject myself. We really had no idea. I thought it would be one of those pen things like Diabetics use. While one medication is administered like this, the others involve cracking open ampoules and mixing powder with a watery solution. SO MUCH ROOM FOR PHAFFERY.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no qualms about physically injecting myself, but my name should be “Rachael Fumble Fingers” (Reason #103 why I could never be a surgeon).  I can imagine so many scenarios where I smash ampoules and have to hair like a bat out of hell to the compounding pharmacy across town to get replacements. Or I lose needles, get the dosage wrong, inject air into myself. The possibilities are endless. I just keep telling myself “If heroin addicts under heavy sedation can manage to inject themselves intravenously, I’m sure you in a (allegedly) conscious and informed state can figure out how to stab your stomach.” Surely.

I just feel myself hitting that wall. I think the past events of the last few years have caught up with me. I’m tired. The other morning I woke up and as Hubster kissed me good bye I told him “I don’t want to adult today. I may or may not be arrested for diving into the ball pit at IKEA. Just a heads up.”

Meanwhile my near four year old told me over breakfast that he couldn’t wait to be an adult because then he wouldn’t have to hold anyones hand in the carpark. It never ceases to amaze me the intensity in which children want to grow up. The biggest compliment I can give him is that he is “grown up.” And then you really DO grow up and suddenly you start buying anti-aging creams, getting cagey about your age, and recounting the “good old days” where your biggest problem was whether to choose the chocolate or rainbow paddle pop (still a dilemma. To be fair).

But I have had my cry and “poor me” whinge. Now, I will put on my big girl panties and do what I need to do. This is it. Three cycles and we’re done, whatever the outcome. We have had so much stress and disappointment and waiting. Now we are getting the help we need. It’s time. Time for me to “woman” up.

I have hit this runners wall in various situations before, and I have always managed to break through to the other side.

You can say many things about me. But I don’t give up easily.

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Some Days Are Easier Than Others

 

I have to say I am struggling at the moment. Not in terms of depression or mania. Not in anxiety or stress. But from pure exhaustion.

I’m struggling to understand whether the exhaustion is mental or physical. Medication induced or cumulative from the hell last year was. All I know is that I crave my bed at times of the day when I shouldn’t. The early morning enthusiasm I have always possessed has deflated into a bleary eyed being going through the motions. Sometimes, and I know this is bad, I choose not to eat because the very thought of preparing lunch exhausts me.

I’ve tried experimenting with my medications. The anti-psychotics are my biggest suspect. Naturally, though, when I skip my dose I end up awake all night. My insomniac ways back again. This I could put up with, but the symptoms of dissociation the following day I can’t. So I take the pills again, and continue wading through my days.

This just wont do though. Despite the fact that I have an active toddler to care for and a house to run, I also have a thesis to write. Yet I stare at the page, immersed in a cloudy brain fog, wondering if I will ever possess the mental strength to finish it. It annoys me. All that time spent researching, waddling into uni eight months pregnant to meet participants, meetings, leaving behind my eight week old baby to run classes and collect data at uni, hours fighting with my statistical software, ….all that goddamn dedication, and now I can’t find it in me to do the best, easiest, most rewarding part!

“You” my supervisor said a few months ago, “have worked so hard on this. You have put much more work into this than the average student. Now you just need to get your act together, write the darn thing and get the mark that you deserve”.

Ok, so she didn’t tell me to get my act together, but I’m sure she was thinking it. 😉

I’ve made a start I suppose. I sat down today, reread the 19 pages I have already written. I read a few key journal articles. Corrected a few mistakes. Forced myself to sit at my desk, put on my glasses (because that surely means business!) and just get on with it. I haven’t achieved much, but it’s more than yesterday, and I suppose that is what counts. I’ll chip away at it. A bit here, a bit there, and hopefully one day I will be surprised to find a finished product.

 

Over the last few years I think I have tortured those around me enough with my thesis. “It’s hideous! I actually think it may kill me”, punctuated with a dramatic flop onto the floor (much to the alarm of the family dog). An epiphany three hours later where I talk with great excitement about “the most interesting thing I have learned all week. Potentially all year. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves yet.” Yes, it’s a love hate relationship. A bipolar state within itself. I’m not the first and won’t be the last to feel this way. Enough is enough, and I must get it done.

 

As for the exhaustion, it’s still here. I’m hoping it’s merely a medication glitch that can be dealt with at my next appointment. If it’s a psychological thing – I guess I just have to keep riding this wave.