Cleaning out the cobwebs - more on infertility and other pain

I have only gone through two actual IVF cycles.
But, I also went through 6 cycles of Clomid.
And 5 YEARS trying on our own.

Every failure hurts, but not so much as the failure of giving up entirely. And that is what I need to cling to as I approach our next cycle.

There was so much which had happened during the end of that last cycle, I've had a real hard time getting a handle on it all. I have been depressed. I have been grieving. I have been hurt, time and again, it seems. And I have put a terrible burden upon myself. Every thing that has seemed to go badly lately I have placed the blame squarely on my shoulders.

It's not fair to me. It's not helping me. And it needs to stop.

I have been given "permission" to grieve, but it was pointed out to me that this doesn't mean permission to blame myself. Or permission to hold onto the past, like links in Marley's chain. I've allowed myself to grieve, but getting passed the past has been quite difficult for a variety of reasons. I'm trying... very hard... but I'm not very successful yet.

I have a great fear and anxiety approaching this next cycle. Which will do me absolutely no good. What's worse is my fears and anxieties are spreading, like wildfire to other aspects of my life.

As much as I have worried about the costs associated with going away to Pennsic for a few days, there is another side of me that keeps saying "you need to do this... you need to get away... you need the little fantasy world for just a little bit to get back on track." But, a part of me fears that even the fantasy will be ruined or (maybe worse) be so good coming back will be yet another disappointment.

See? Worries before they even happen. Worries about the past and the future instead of enjoying the "now" like the counselor suggested to me.

*deep breath*

I am a strong woman. I have been through a lot. I have finally started to sort out where real love is in my life, where passing concern and acquaintance resides and where falseness has been allowed to creep in. I need to remember the positive of those people and places and ideas and let the rest walk past me,  move on in life, keep selfishness and hurt and ignorance away. I need to stand up for myself when I'm being taken for granted... but more I need to allow myself to not be so concerned about not being so concerned - I put too much burden on myself to care for the world, when I have neglected myself for far too long.

I can do this. I am ready for this. I may hurt now, but there is still hope (even if it means passing through more hurt, I accept that possibility). And as long as I hold onto hope, I can get past this hardship like I have so many other times before.

My heart hurts tonight.
Something was entrusted to me a long time ago and I was sure I had kept it somewhere I could always go back and read it and reflect on it and remember with great fondness the struggle through a difficult time which led to a great love and passion.

And I have lost those writings. I'm sure they exist somewhere in this world... but they are no longer to be found among my things.

In light of so much that has happened to me lately, this is that proverbial last straw that makes the ache of loss so much more painful right now.

These were a time, a moment, a writing, an emotion I will never be able to reclaim.

One would think memory often more sweet than truth... but, at least right now, I'd rather have the truth of those writings than the faded memories which went with them.

Moving on, Moving Up, Moving Past (Or Why I’m a Terrible Writer)

Sometimes there really aren’t words for all that goes on in one’s head. Emotions are a tricky thing at best and as much as it is sometimes necessary to vent them and rid your mind of them in order to move on, public forum is often a terrible way in which to do so. Why? Because emotions taint everything all of us do. I can say or write one thing, a very clear meaning in mind as I do so, and yet someone else may add their own emotion, feeling, bias to it and change my meaning entirely. I am a lover of language and truly believe anything can be expressed through writing. Pure writing can take out emotion, can lay the soul bare and explain more concisely than the spoken word, tinged with emotions and inflection and body language ever can. But, the real problem with such writing is that you can never ever control the emotion of the reader. Certainly words can manipulate the emotions; create anger or sadness or joy… but to attempt to remove the emotions of the reader is impossible.

That being said, I did my best to vent my spleen in a private place. I am still full of a great hurt and disappointment and fear. But, I cannot change the past… I can only acknowledge it, grieve for it and move past it. It’s been pointed out to me that I dwell too much on the past; and what’s worse, I take too much burden of it upon myself. I cannot change events. What’s more, I cannot change those who do not wish to change themselves. We all walk a lonely path; the best we can hope for is one or two who can hold us up when the road becomes too rocky. I have to remember I have those one or two and be grateful for that instead of lamenting the lack of many to carry me along that path. In the end, we walk a lonely path… and if we don’t learn how, we end up merely walking in circles.

On to the second part of my title – why I am a terrible writer. Unless I were to write tripe for Hallmark, I don’t think many poets make a living from their writing. I’ll happily retract that statement for proof to the contrary; particularly in the form of monetary compensation for my poetry. So, my main means of writing makes for a poor way to pay my mortgage.

Which leaves my prose… which leads me to answer the above question.

I write in the moment. I am inspired to my writing by that which surrounds me. I write as the words flow into my head, rather than plan a story arch, make an outline, develop characters and then write the story. Or, perhaps more importantly, the story writes through me, rather than I write any story. I am merely the conduit through which the words spill onto a page. There is no planning; what inspiration I glean I get from gaming or dreaming or broken hearts.

My greatest “achievement” in the arena of writing thus far has been my novella of the Fae of Sylvania. Now, for those of you in the “know” this should probably more than explain my Writer’s Dilemma. This novella has been over 10 years in the making. And it’s still not finished. And due to my serious lacking of memory, may remain an uncompleted work until the day I die.

Some have said “well… just make it up – it doesn’t need to follow what really happened in the game.” But, that feels untrue; false. I can’t get the “tone” of the characters right (with one possible exception) and the story was told; was played out… how can I change that? What’s more, how could I write an entirely new story that had never been told?

And that’s why I’m a terrible writer. A real writer wouldn’t need that sort of outside inspiration to the actual actions of the story. Inspiration for characters or a plotline perhaps… but not inspiration for every action which takes place; every word a character speaks.

I am an excellent mimic. I can take the tale that happens and capture it on paper, much like writing a plot review for a favorite movie. But, I have no story of my own to tell. And that’s sad – because I will never have those years back again. They are lost to me now… a fond memory, fast fading into the future.

Which brings me back full circle to the start of this entry… I live in the past. It’s shiny and sparkling and very beautiful from way up here in the future and so it always just seems like a happier time. And, those which aren’t so happy? That way leads to anger and emotions which drive that happy story like a villain to my heroes. You cannot define light without the darkness; goodness without evil.

So, I’m left bereft of a good story… only able to use “real life” events to tell fictional tales. What’s more is that sometimes those real life events fall into that category of “things best left unsaid in public.” A real writer wouldn’t care; she’d put it all out there in some form; find a way to use the words to manipulate not just emotions but actions of those around her. Inspire, cowl, anger, shame… playing the reader like a violin, without them even realizing she’s done it. My words only fall flat; lumps of aggression, puddles of tears, questions of confusion. If I can’t even shape one person’s understanding, how can I expect to reach an entire readership with my stories?

A Thousand Stabbing Hurts

This weekend seemed to be full of them. Physically and emotionally and even financially.

I am at a loss. I have so many words and yet they all seem to get stuck.

I am hurt and angry and devastated and ... it turns into a vicious cycle. When I think I've got one hurt under control, something pulls the rug out from under me and all those paper cut wounds come bursting open again.

I'd like to blame self-involvement... but I'm certainly as guilty of such as the next. So instead I'll blame complacence. Somewhere along the line, it seeped in. I recognized it years ago when I commented on one of my yearly ruminations on Erik's death. But, it wasn't until now that I realized just how much it had seeped in; soaking everything around me.

This is likely to be the last post for a while. I need a break from the world and I'm tired of trying to be nice; trying to pretend there's nothing wrong - with me, with situations, with others - and I'm quite honestly tired of being hurt so much.

My body and mind need a break. So I'm going to indulge them in that.