Seasonal Affective Disorder. I think I have it. Er, something.
One of the reasons I love living here is that, even in winter, it’s sunny almost all the time. The rare days it’s not, all I want to do is curl up under a blanket and go to sleep.
Today was one of those days.
But it’s not just because it was cloudy. I’ve been tired all week. Initially, I blamed a string of sleepless nights last week. Then there was the period from hell. I don’t think that’s it either, though.
I’ve decided I’m fighting off some nasty virus that I probably acquired during one of my recent home visits. I’ve been sneezed and coughed on. I’ve had boogers and snot flung in my general direction. I’ve had kids’ filthy little hands in my face. This is not new. But one of them must have been harboring the plague, and now I’m trying my hardest not to succumb to it, too, and it’s exhausting.
Hubby complained yesterday that I was being more bitchy than normal. Which made me cry. But then I reminded him that I wasn’t feeling well, and he sort of apologized. Later, when he tucked me in (which is a real thing that happens in our house because I have to get up for work at the ass-crack of dawn, and his only commitment for the day is a class he teaches at 6 pm), I asked him specifically what I had said or done so I wouldn’t repeat it, but he couldn’t come up with an example. Is there such a thing as generalized bitchiness disorder? Yet another side-effect of infertility.
Speaking of conditions that should be included in the DSM-IV, I’ve been seriously considering giving therapy another shot. The only experiences I have had sitting across from a supposedly well-educated and empathetic professional, I’ve left feeling worse about myself.
The first time, when I was in grad school and seriously considering quitting because I’d cried during every single one of my teaching practicums, the “therapist” from the student counseling center (who was still a student herself) suggested I might be slightly antisocial because I answered a 100+ item questionnaire honestly, including admitting that I’d cross the street if I saw someone I knew coming toward me. That’s not antisocial. That’s called I’m-in-no-mood-to-put-up-with-mundane-chit-chat-I’ve-got-more-pressing-concerns-to-worry-about-thank-you-very-much.
The second therapist, whom I’ve written about before, diagnosed me as introverted as if it were a disease and put me in group therapy with a bunch of other introverts. Because just what an introvert wants to do is sit in a circle with complete strangers making uncomfortable, rule-based conversation about real issues.
So I went to RESOLVE’s website looking for a qualified therapist whom I wouldn’t have to educate about infertility, only to discover that there aren’t any in my state. At least, not according to RESOLVE.
I then went to my health insurance company’s website, where I found a dozen of them within 10 miles of my zip code, although most of them seemed to have clicked every possible area of expertise when filling out the online form, which is not really helpful when you’re looking for someone who gets it.
It feels like just another excuse for me not to follow through with this. Even though it might actually help this time. Even though I think I’m really going to need it, whether this transfer doesn’t take and I’m devastated or I end up an anxious pregnant infertile.
Cristy had an awesome post advocating for marriage counseling to help couples get through the trauma of infertility and/or loss, based on her and her husband’s own experience. I’ve considered this, too, but Hubby’s eternal optimism always shoots me down. He doesn’t think he needs therapy, which makes me think we need it even more. But I can’t do anything to change his mind. He’s just about the most stubborn person I know. I’m trying to find a way to insert my ideas into his most frequently visited websites, so that he won’t realize they’re coming from me and, therefore, will suddenly think they’re great. Still working on that plan.
In the meantime, all I can do is try to work on myself. I think seeing a therapist is part of that equation, but I’m having a hard time actually picking up the phone. Even as I write this, I feel my jaw start to tighten, my eyes welling up with tears. Why is it so hard to ask for help when we need it the most?