Public enemy number one

I have been in a particularly fragile state of mind as of late, hence my distinct lack of posts. As I mentioned in my previous entry, I've got my IVF-planning consultation this Saturday, and I am constantly weighed down by the thought that all of this is a big fucking waste of time. I am by no means looking forward to the physical implications of IVF, and I know that I will deal with the emotional aspects as well as I always do when undertaking treatment -- I will cry constantly, be annoyed by the sound of my co-worker chowing down noisily on her daily pack of crisps to the point of sincere homicidal thoughts, and be unable to leave my flat on weekends. What is there not to look forward to?

The most omnipresent thought has been (surprise surprise) the financial side of treatment. We can afford a round or two, but it will quite severely cut into our savings. This is nothing new, I know, but the depressing fact is there is no way for an infertile couple to have a child without surrendering savings or becoming massively in debt. If this cycle is unsuccessful, we plan on pursuing adoption. My naive self thought that would be cheaper than carrying on with IVF, but from what I can tell it's just as expensive if not more so. Brilliant. So really, infertility fucks up your life in the obvious way, and continues to fuck you when you work hard to earn money so that you can afford a child in the first place. It fills me with the warm fuzzies, it really does.

Given this constant theme of infertility-induced depression, I have a confession to make which I hope will not be misinterpreted. It seems as if at this time I am in the depths, others have risen and achieved the perceived impossible. There has been a pronounced spike in positive pregnancy tests, and may I emphasise that I am ecstatically happy for all those wonderful women that have been through so much. I in no way resent their happiness, because as I have told some of them privately, why do we read blogs and encourage others during treatment if we begrudge them for being successful? Isn't that what we're all working toward? Nonetheless, I feel a bit left behind. I am the epitome of a cynic, as the successes do not instill me with hope, but rather make me all the more aware of how very unpregnant I am. I will not stop reading the blogs of the knocked up, because I love them dearly and want to follow their pregnancies, as I hope they will follow mine if that day ever comes. I'm just a miserable bitch that likes to wallow.

Given my recent unstable state of mind, the last thing I needed to be greeted with is the above-mentioned public enemy number one. This nemesis that I speak of came in the form of a gorgeous woman -- well-dressed, 5'10, naturally tan skin, green eyes and about 125 lbs. She is a friend of a friend and I spent quite a lot of time with her at a wedding I attended on Saturday. Not only did I feel like a short, fat troll next to this Amazonian beauty, but an immense reproductive failure as well. BWYCH (Beautiful Woman You Can't Hate) has two children, and is a year older than me at 28.

Normally I console myself when faced with such situations by thinking, "Well, I got an education rather than getting pregnant so young, surely that is good, right?" but of course BWYCH went to university as well and will soon be carrying on with postgraduate studies much like me. BWYCH: 3 (Kids = 2pts, Impossible beauty = 1 pt), Pru: 0. Not satisfied with winning three to nil, BWYCH went for my complete annihilation, as she is seriously the nicest person ever. I don't fool easily, and I can spot a fake person from the first nod where they pretend they care what you're talking about. I tried to find faults in BWYCH, but in the end I lost 4-0.

I hope I didn't bring everyone's spirits crashing to the ground with this rather cheery entry. I debate writing anything when I can't at least attempt to be humorous, because I think I just end up sounding like an angsty 15 year old, albeit an infertile 15 year old. Hopefully a viewing of Anne of Green Gables and a meeting with my old trusty Ben and Jerry's will lift me back up again so I can resume my post as lovable misanthrope instead of miserable cow.