I keep looking for words to describe my mental state, but nothing seems to really capture the quality.
I feel strange. I feel Unable to Process. I go to work, I focus on work, but it’s like being underwater. I find myself in a classroom with a lesson plan in front of me, I carry it out, but it’s autopilot-tastic. I had a seriously overwhelming urge to ditch class yesterday.
I am happy to be with my child, but part of me is never there. It’s not like I’m thinking of other things, either, I’m just…gone. I am happy when I think of my possible future child, but it’s the same–there’s a missing part of me, and I don’t know where it is. My husband hardly exists. He’s that creature who does an inadequate job when it comes to cleaning things.
Today I’m wondering if it’s just the fact that this is the shittiest time of year, when nothing ever feels quite right. I used to mock people who couldn’t handle winter, but now I live in a place that is not only cold, but endlessly grey, and I understand. It’s like living in a Russian novel, and not something mildly cheery like Pushkin*, but something extra gloomy and hopeless, like Solzhenitsyn. And there’s no vodka in my novel.
Or maybe I’m just Adjusting. Maybe the experience of infertility forced me to redefine myself, and now, hey, now that I’m a Fertile Whore, I get to redefine myself again. Maybe it’s just going to take a while for all this shit to catch up with me, to sink in.
And yes, I DO feel like an asshole for writing anything but UNICORNS ARE FALLING FROM THE SKY considering how perfect and wonderful my life is, but this is what’s going on, and I feel the need to express it so I can move on to other things, like WHY BUN BUN FEELS THE NEED TO MAKE A HIGH PITCHED WHINE THROUGHOUT DINNER THESE DAYS.
*Yes, fine, it would be a short story or poem or play in that case.