March 2011

It’s no secret that I’ve been feeling off a bit the last few weeks.  I’ve been having more downs than usual, been more sensitive, and even snappy.  I hated it, and I was perplexed.  I’ve been so good lately: positive and optimistic and…well…happy.  I delved into my psyche, weighed my non-existant drama, searched for triggers and combed my mind for the origins of my unrest – to no avail.

Then I looked at a calendar.

This time two years ago, I was going through what I think was the most difficult part of my life.  I’d been given April 6 as my adoption day for J.  I was waiting for something to happen to stop it.  I was waiting for another fight.  I was shaky and crying all the time.  My doctor prescribed me klonopin to keep me calm.  It had been such a difficult road, with so many false starts and obstacles, that I couldn’t believe it would happen.  My mind was swirling with the love and hate that had come my way for doing this, and in the middle of it was this little boy who I loved as though he were my own.  Was it possible that I wouldn’t need to fight over him anymore?  I’d felt like the only person seeing clearly for years, and still felt punished for it, even at the moment I should be happiest.

It feels silly to think that this could still affect me.  Doctors have thrown out the word trauma at me, and I brush it off.  Isn’t trauma what happens to soldiers?  Doctors?  “Little-t” trauma, they say.  Loved ones turned against you.  Said hateful things.  Blamed you.  It sticks with you.  It takes time to heal.  Is it possible that even two years later, when everything is settled, when he and I are happy, when the family is more or less reunited, that this can still echo within me?

I don’t know.  It’s the only thing I can come up with.  But if it is an echo, it’s one that’s farther away than last year, and very far from what I felt at the time. 

Last night, J awoke with nightmares twice.  I let him crawl into bed with me.  When he woke up, I asked him if they went away.  He said yes, that he’d had amazing dreams, which were probably because he slept next to his amazing mom!  I wouldn’t change a thing about how I handled taking him in and the adoption.  Not one thing.


I know that last year I wrote here about going off the Pill.  That only lasted a month or so, honestly.  Once I realized that my depression wasn’t linked to it, I started again.  However, this past December I actually did go off of it for good.  My doctor had suggested it because I was having optical migraines in the fall, and I thought maybe getting off hormones after 15 years was a good idea.  I felt like I was “going green” with my body – taking out the chemicals, letting my reproductive system regulate itself, being natural.  I felt like some kind of smiling, fresh-faced girl in a soap commercial.  I started popping vitamins, threw my pill packs in a drawer, and approached this new world with optimism and pride.

But you know what I’ve concluded?


Seriously?  The ovulation?  It hurts my boobs.  For DAYS.  And PMS?  I could take a fucking baseball bat to my whole office right now and still want to fuck shit up.  Really?  Do you know how much chocolate I ate last night?   I could eat a pan of lasagna.  And my self-esteem is in the toilet.  Seriously?  This is mother nature

Don’t make me cut a bitch…

Aretha Franklin, you can keep that stupid song.  I don’t want to be a natural woman.  I want to be pumped with enough estrogen and progesterone to keep me from the aching and misery.  I want to never have to wonder when I’m getting my period.  I want to be the alpha female who all others’ periods revolve around, because I am in control of my reproductive cycles.