Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Watchpot


I had a maintenance visit with my psychologist last week. First, let me premise it with this: I love that bitch. She is completely realistic, she uses the f-bomb, and she has no problem telling me when I'm being fucking unrealistic. SeewhatImean? She rocks. So I'm sitting in her office smiling through tears and trying to articulate the craziness inside my head when a statement bubbles out of my throat... it came quickly in a series of incognizant word vomit as I'm prone to do. I shit you not, it went something like this: 

I'm stressed the fuck out and I don't understand why idiots get pregnant even fat idiots and I stopped working out because I've completely crashed and burned and now the cellulite has taken over my thighs and I figure my husband wouldn't want to have sex with me anyway and I wouldn't blame him and not to mention WHY DO I HAVE SUCH A DRY VAG ALL THE TIME?!?! SHE NEVER USED TO LET ME DOWN!

A moment of silence commences and we make eye contact, both a little surprised at whatthefuck I just said, but then something really odd happens. We both start laughing. Like old friends, it was a hearty, lengthy laugh, until we're both laugh-crying. And she's making notes, so I ask, "did you get all that?!" She nods enthusiastically and confirms "yep, check, Koral and her dry vag, uh-huh."

We conclude that stress is a total cunt, but there are things we can do. $100 bucks later and I've got every moisturizer, home remedy, and vitamin on the market. For shit's sake, I may not be fertile but I'm going to slide my way all over this fucking city! INFERTILE GIRL COMIN' ATCHA, schlorrrppp! Sidenote: I'm still waiting for the "Zestra Rush" they market. So far, let's be serious, it feels a lot like like icy hot and nothing like a rush. I put it on to be all sneaky-like while I did the dishes. And you know what? Doing the dishes still sucked. Even with an icy, no hot, no icy, no wait, it tickles a little, no, it's hot, vagina.

So now that you've heard about my vagina (it's been a while), are you still with me?

Obviously, infertility has a way of creeping in and becoming all-consuming. Particularly when your mind is an asshole like mine and there's a constant stream of word vomit ruminating in your mind. A quick Google search of Type A personality produced these characteristics:

  • Time Urgency and Impatience
  • Competitiveness
  • Strong Achievement-Orientation
  • Certain Physical Characteristics That Result From Stress and Type A Behavior Over Years

Well mother-fucking-BAZINGA! It was never more glaringly obvious to me than when I was thrust into the uncontrollable abyss of infertility. Our infertility treaters looked at A and B - sperm and eggs. Both of which received an "A+" on their report cards. All prerequisite tests ruled out anything concerning. Our official diagnosis was "unexplained infertility." But, I don't like unexplained things, let alone ones I can't control. So what's a girl to do?

Make a fucking plan, that's what she does! Me and my newly moisturized friend slid into action (get it? badumcha!). I'm thinking outside the box and advocating a bit more for myself. Perhaps it's an act of desperation, but I'm keeping an open mind. Stay tuned for updates. That is, if my new nutritional approach doesn't give me horrendous shits for days and I can't leave the crapper.

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