Cards on the table.

I always knew, deep down in the marrow of my bones, that I wanted to be a mom. When I was little I stuffed my Cabbage Patch dolls under my shirts and pretended to be pregnant. I carried my dolls everywhere, pretending to mother them.

I have always known that I wanted to care for a child. It felt like something I was destined to do, destined to fill my life with the family that I built.

I was diagnosed with PCOS and prothrombin mutation (which increases the risk of clotting, and thus miscarriage) when I was 20, by happenstance when I was being treated for other medical issues. I was getting married, not preventing pregnancy, and I wanted to know my odds of having children, given the diagnoses that I’d been given. No answers, options, or referrals, were received. I was blown off by my doctors because, I suppose, they thought I was too young to think about it.

One of the reasons my fiancé left me for another woman was because we had been trying for a year, I wasn’t getting pregnant, our odds of conceiving weren’t looking great, and I barely touched him because I was depressed about it. (He also left me because of the fact that he was a sack of crap. That, too.)

Fast forward a couple years. I met John in 2010 and we fell madly, desperately, fiercely, wholly in love with each other. We didn’t prevent anything. We were both fine with the idea of a baby if it happened, but given my history it seemed unlikely that it would happen or, if it did happen, I wouldn’t miscarry. Without medical help, our chances seemed pretty remote.

In September of 2011, I likely miscarried our baby. There was nothing right about that cycle, my pain, the timing, or the amount of bleeding that occurred. It was unconfirmed by a test, but it was a very highly suspected chemical pregnancy. It hurt like hell.

In February of 2012, John and I broke up because I still wanted a baby and he had changed his mind about wanting one. And then the shittiest year and a half (and counting!) of my life started.

I got depressed. I got angry when a disproportionately large number of the people I know got pregnant and it still, again, always, wasn’t me. I felt like a horrid human being all of the time.

Every happy announcement felt like a slap in the face, and it hurt right where my junky ovaries are, a stabbing pain that wouldn’t go away for hours, the psychosomatic symptom of my depression that certainly didn’t hurt my heart at all. I’d get flares of rage at inconsequential things that someone pregnant would say. Like, if they said that having their children close together in age was going to be difficult. Or that they didn’t get the sex of baby that they wanted. Or that they felt terrible in the heat.

Finally, at someone actually using the word “trigger” with me, it dawned on me that that was what was going on (I am incredibly dim). It never occurred to me that depression has triggers. I’m working on cognitive re-framing in therapy and it’s going really well, we think. There aren’t any more flares of anger, but I do still admit to some frustration, sometimes, at some comments (it’s the best I can do right now and I’m still actively working on it). Having someone say that their children are going to be close together in age is still difficult to hear, especially if they are having two children in the space of time that it took me to try, and fail, to have one.

The fact of the matter is, pregnancy isn’t easy. Having children close in age isn’t easy. Not getting the sex of baby that you hoped for is a disappointment, and heck, I’ve dreamt for years of having a little boy. Being hot, miserable, and sick in the summer isn’t easy, if you are pregnant or not. This all makes logical sense, but it did trigger me in a big way for a long, long while and make me feel jealous and petty and oh so small.

I have felt like a failure a lot this year. I feel like having babies is a basic, biologic test that I am failing at. I feel like a failure as a friend when I get triggered and I get sad and angry and frustrated at a neutral comment that wouldn’t affect other people this way. I feel like my feelings on my infertility aren’t valid because I am not, currently, trying to conceive and because so very many people have it worse and have experienced pain that I can’t even fathom. I feel angry at my body for being broken in this way, for needing help with something that most people find so easy to do.

I know, logically, that my infertility isn’t my fault. I know that I have done nothing to make this happen. This is shit luck with genetics. But the difference between what your head knows and your heart feels is a vast chasm that I cannot currently bridge. I blame myself for the inadequacies of my body. It isn’t fair, or right, but that’s where I am right now.


Last week I picked up the phone and made an appointment, despite my fears, anxiety, and my (on some days) crippling depression. On Monday, I have an appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist to see about my chances of having a baby someday, to see about options for protocol, and success rates for woman like me. I am not exactly hopeful. Hope on this subject is no longer something that I can carry.

Monday also happens to be the two year anniversary of my likely miscarriage.

I plan on crying a lot.


I feel like I’m making too big a thing about my appointment because I don’t have a partner to stand beside me and support me through whatever news that might come. Having a partner, who you have worked so hard to have children with already and are now going to a fertility clinic with, is a kind of heartache that I can’t even imagine.

But I don’t have a partner. And that’s hard. It’s scary to be carrying this burden alone. It’s scary to worry if my mental health will get worse after the news in my appointment. I have a lot of trouble managing my anxiety about my appointment and how I’m going to feel about the news later. I can’t predict how I’m going to feel about it. I can’t predict how, even if I get relatively good news on the matter, it’s going to affect how I view myself and my long term goals of building a family with someone I love.


I plan on doing emotional damage control on Monday by spending time with friends, snuggling a baby, eating cake, watching something mindless on TV, and drinking scotch. And crying. A lot.

I’m scared. Of everything to come. I’m so scared.


There’s what’s up.

It wasn’t until my friend Jeremy asked me, kindly, at 5:30 AM on Monday while we were making the long drive back to town after visiting his lovely wife the day before if “anything didn’t give [me] The Feels these days” that I realized that something was wrong.

I’m going through a moderate bout of depression. I have been for a while. It’s…strange to realize that.

I am not new to depression. I’ve had three severe periods, each lasting at least six months. All of them were brought on immediately by major events. One (that I’m willing to talk about) occurred after I quit my job, started college, my boyfriend dumped me, and a friend committed suicide in the same week. I felt comatose for six months and eyed the kitchen knives because I thought: life will always be like this. It will never, ever stop being like this. This is my life now, and it sucks, so what’s the point of living? 

Things got better. Eventually. But I lost some friends in the process. (Albeit they were shitty friends, but they were the only ones I had. So. That sucked.)

Fast forward to this year. This year, man. It’s been the most brutal of my life. And as someone who has suffered/is suffering from PTSD, I do not say that lightly. PTSD at least had the mercy to make me numb.

This year? I have felt everything. I have felt un-chosen, like everyone in my life had looked at me and said “I choose ______ over you, Kammah.” I have felt unloved and lonely and cut off and passed over.

I have felt the loss of the life that should have been and almost was. It was there and then it was just…not. And all the possibilities that came with it, the dreams and the hopes and the future laid out before me, beckoning and lovely and simple and fine and pure, were just…gone. Up and vanished. And there I am, clutching, trying to bring back what is no longer there.

But. You know. Life moves on. I am continuing to pick up the pieces, slowly, because it’s gone and it’s not coming back and if I’m not at least trying to look forward, my whole body aches and it feels like my heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest. Still. Ten months later. I wonder if that feeling will ever pass. I hope against hope that it will.

I prided myself in not slipping into the abyss after everything happened in February.  As if depression is something that you can just control with the power of your will not to be in it. I mean, sure, I had Bad Days but I wasn’t depressed.

Until. You know. It turns out that I’m not over things. It turns out that I’m being mind-fucked about some things that I’m not willing, or able, to talk about here. It turns out that I’m heartbroken. I thought I had healed enough to function and act like a reasonable human person and carry on living. But a couple solid months of nightmares, insomnia, anxiety about The Blathering (which I went to! And it was awesome! And I really shouldn’t have worried as much about it as I did!), some personal life stuff that I got excited about when I shouldn’t have (hope, man. It’ll screw you over every time.), a minor cold that I got which left me with a cough that I couldn’t seem to shake, and work running me into the ground. And it turns out that all of those things were enough to just kinda…sidle up to me and bump me into a depression. A moderate one, but still.

I have no reason to think that things will become severe. And I’ve asked my mom and a couple of close friends to keep an eye on me, just in case. But I’m in the suck right now, I don’t feel very well, and I just thought I should let you know, Friend.

Thanks for listening.