First, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I just can’t stop eating. I have to pay pretty close attention to my diet (though I hate the word “diet” because that’s not what I do) to keep myself at a reasonable (i.e. not embarrassing) weight. By being careful and smart (mostly cutting out non-veggie carbs), I managed to lose about 20 pounds in 2007, working my way back into a size 14. Not amazing, but definitely passable. Mind you, I carry ALL of my fat on my belly, making me look—you guessed it—pregnant. In fact, before I lost the 20 pounds, I had several people ask me if I was pregnant. (The only thing worse that being asked if you’re pregnant when you’re not is being asked if you’re pregnant when you’re being slapped the face with the discovery of your increasingly serious infertility.) So gaining weight again is BAD, because it gives me back that horrible baby-bump-without-a-baby.
I think I’ve easily gained 10 pounds in the past two weeks. Not that I’ve weighed myself, because I do that at the gym, which I’m not allowed to go to. But I could tell when I was bloated, and I can tell that most of the water bloating is gone—this is just fat. Which sucks, and makes me feel like crap. And yet I keep eating. I’m just carb-crazed. When I stop I’m starving. And then something happens and I start to cry. And then I start eating again just to stop crying.
Second, I’m feeling horribly depressed and alone. J is a theatrical lighting designer, and he works a lot of nights. And weekends. As in pretty much any time I might have a chance of seeing him or talking to him. This has been going on for more than ten years, and usually it’s not that much of a biggie. But sometimes, like now, when he goes week after week without being home for dinner much than a smattering of times, it really starts to get to me. He’s been gone most of March, and pretty much all of April so far. I see him in the morning when I wake him up to give me a ride to the train station. And I talk to him on the phone a few times throughout the day. But that’s really it—mostly it’s just me, home alone, cooking for myself, doing all the dishes, then just going to bed early because I’m so damn bored.
So this morning, as I was getting my 3 minutes of J-time on the way to the train station, I asked whether he’d be done with his show on Friday. “Not likely,” he said. “But you’ll be home this weekend?” He told me he’d be home on Saturday, but would be starting on a new show on Sunday. Then he proceeded to describe the next three weeks, in which he’ll be home maybe three nights. Then I proceeded to get really upset, but it’s not like we can talk, because I have to get on the fucking train and go to work.
There’s nothing he can do about this. He’s barely eking out a living as it is—he HAS to work these hours if he’s going to work at all. And he booked these gigs long before we knew how our IVF cycle would go. Hell, I feel lucky he was around the day of retrieval so he could donate sperm and give me a ride home. There’s no way he can just stay home because I happen to be hormonal and horribly depressed. Truth is, once he’s booked, he can’t bail out for ANY reason. There’s no one to cover for him.
But the bottom line is that I’m miserable. Lonely and bored and stressed out and freaked out and fucking miserable. When J’s home he’s like a giant sponge, those moods can come off me and he just absorbs them. He’s the ultimate neutralizer. But when I’m home alone all those moods just bounce off the walls and come right back at me. It’s awful.
And it gets worse. Because for the last three days all I’ve been able to think about is how much more miserable I’m going to be when I’m home alone with a baby and no one to help me out. At least right now the workload is manageable. But with a kid? (Or, god forbid, TWO?) And me with a bad back and bad shoulders, after a full day of work, trying to handle it all on my own?
Two days ago, after being unable to shake these feelings of doom, I told J I needed to tell him about my most recent paranoia so maybe I’d start feeling better about it. “I’m just scared that we’re actually going to end up having a baby and I’m going to be all on my own and I’m not going to be able to deal with it and I’m going to hate you for it,” I said all in one breath.
Silence. Then, “Oh, I thought you were going to tell me about an unfounded fear,” he said.
This did NOT make me feel better. Then he tried to help. “Listen, it’s not so bad. I’m home almost all of February, and August.”
This made me feel even worse.
He knows I’m upset with his schedule. He really can’t do anything about it. But I’m also kind of mad that he’s not even trying to make me feel better about it. Doesn’t he know I’m a giant, fat, crazy, hormonal, technically-pregnant-with-triplets mess? Doesn’t he know that I need comfort? Would it kill him to pander to me a bit?
Sigh. Super crappy week. Fat, lonely, depressed. And did I mention my back is killing me? Oh, and my new haircut isn’t working out––my bangs look stringy and the color is fading way too soon and I just had it done a week ago. And I did taxes and we owe a shitload of money (close to $4K), so all of the nice things I was going to do for myself have to be ditched. And my skin is breaking out. And Mike Lowell just went on the disabled list. And my 100 red tulips that came up beautifully last year apparently decided one year was enough; only ONE has come back this spring.
Did I mention that I’m cranky?
This was a horrible whiney post, so I’m attaching a cute kitten picture in a desperate effort to cling to my readers. See how big he's getting? (He's showing off his newfound length in this shot. And no, he never did slide all the way down. Amazing.)