Perspective is a funny thing...

I was confiding in a friend the other day about our TTC issues, our loss and IF and how we are handling it. Here were her main points:

-It took her three whole months to TTC her second baby, so she knows how hard TTC is! Like, totally! She was really starting to panic folks! She was thinking something was wrong with her! OMG! (She was insanely flippant about it which was amusing.)

-My Perspective: It takes couples, normal, healthy couples on average 6-12 months to get pregnant. There are those super freaks out there who get pregnant on the first try, but I am convinced many of them have sold their soul to the Devil in order to do so. Three months into our TTC journey, we weren't even close to breaking a sweat. The first "WTF?" moments weren't until about 6 cycles in. Even then we weren't too concerned. So three months to TTC? Ha! That is child's play.

-She totally knows how scary a miscarriage is because she had, like, ya know, spotting at 7 weeks and freaked! OMG. So yea, she totally understands how scary and hard it is.

-My Perspective: (Let me catch my breath from laughing so hard first.) Yea, spotting at 7 weeks is scary, I'll give you that. But the fear we felt when I started spotting and the sheer agony that we felt when we were told there was no longer a heartbeat? Not even on the same playing field. Seriously. To even think it is okay to compare the two makes me think you might be probably are mentally deranged. They are different kinds of fear and sadness.

-Women who deal with IF have no reason to suffer from PPD (postpartum depression) because it took them so long to conceive their child. They have no excuse to be sad.

-My Perspective: Hold the mother ****** phone. This was the point at which I ended the conversation, excused myself and walked away. As someone who has a history of depression in her family, I really didn't take this too lightly.
I have worked really hard to stay on top of how I feel and how I am doing emotionally since I was around 21. I know I am at higher risk for depression because of my family history, so when people throw around things like this or the "you need therapy" card, it really strikes a nerve with me. I keep a tight hold on where I am mentally and emotionally because I have seen first hand how debilitating depression can be and I never want that to be me.
PPD has nothing to do with whether you love your baby or not. The change in hormones, your entire lifestyle and daily routine and exhaustion can all lead to PPD. So saying that women who have dealt with IF have no reason to suffer from PPD is ludicrous. Throwing around the "you need therapy" card is right up there with it.
Part of the problem with PPD and depression is that "we" (the public) make it something to be ashamed of. PPD doesn't mean you don't love your baby. Depression doesn't mean you are fighting the urge to jump from a tall building every day to your death. It just means you are having a hard time and might need a little help. Since when is asking for help so wrong? Since when did asking for help become something we should be ashamed of?
The insane part? Most of the criticism comes from other women! Why are we always so pitted against each other? Instead of judging those having a hard time, why aren't we empathetic and compassionate towards them? Why is it that snarky, condescending comments come out first instead of supportive encouragement? It's mind boggling. We have enough against us as women just from society alone, so why are we killing each other just to give ourselves one second of self appointed glory? Does being so rude to others really make you feel that good? It doesn't work that way for me...perhaps it does for others though. I've got enough on plate as it is though, so I can only focus on me at the moment.

Maybe we all need some therapy...

::throws down the therapy card and scoots soapbox back under the table::


And in other news, one more dose of Clomid to go! The side effects have been minimal. Popping a few Tylenol when I get up and about every 4 hours afterwards seems to keep the headaches at bay, the mood swings are no more than they are when I'm not on Clomid (right, Honey?), and the night sweats have not returned since night one, although I am thinking the culprit of said night sweats was not the Clomid, but rather a pair of 70 pound Boxers named Marley and Boston. They are documented bed hogs (since that blog, Marley has decided that living inside is the only way to live, so now we share the bed with both boys instead of just Boss).





That's it for now, I have much more to enter, but I try to keep entries somewhat reasonable so they don't require an entire afternoon to read.


Hugs&Kisses