I Want Candy

And by "candy" I mean Prozac. Or some other antidepressant.

But I can't get them. My RE (and the nurse) were quite sympathetic to my plight. He is willing to write a prescription that is (as-far-as-they-know) safe to take during IVF and pregnancy. If. If my therapist is willing to consult with them, to tell them my diagnosis and to recommend which drug she thinks is best for me. They want me to know I'm not alone, that "most" of their patients who do IVF are on (or get on) an antidepressant. Especially, my nurse was careful to add, in situations like mine, where things do not go smoothly. But mental health isn't their area of expertise (you'd think doing 200+ IVF cycles a year would make it have to be, wouldn't you?), so they want outside input.

My therapist...is a social worker. I began seeing her for reasons unrelated to infertility, but when it hit and hit hard, I kept up. I also joined a "women's group". (There are no infertility support groups that I can afford. There is one that charges $50 per week, but come on.) We meet for 2 hours every Wednesday and talk about life and stuff. I'm the only infertile, but these are nice, loving, lifesaving women.

And yet, 3 hours of mental help a week and I am still batshit insane. I cry every single day. Oftentimes more than once. I cried for at least half an hour the other night because a bunch of children (and a handful of parents) were Christmas carolling and stopped at our door. I listened to their two songs, wished them all a merry Christmas, closed the door and about died. Tonight I was supposed to go to a Jazz game with my husband and my brother, and I begged off "sick". I am not sick. I am fucking depressed. I cannot bear the thought of going out in public. I haven't studied as much as I need to. I've skipped classes. I called in sick to work last Friday because I couldn't get out of bed. I've gained a ridiculous amount of weight. I haven't gotten much further on my application, which is now due in a month, than I had in October. For christ's sake, I am barely functional. If it weren't for JimDear, I don't know that I would function at all.

And yet my therapist says she doesn't know how much of this is me and how much is just the hormones. (I've been off Lupron for a week or so now, and no better.) Does it even fucking matter at this point? She says she does believe in physiological causes for depression but isn't sure about me. (She knows that depression and anxiety run in my family. Very, very strongly. At last count, all 3 of my biological siblings were on antidepressants and/or anti-anxiety meds, as is my mother. My father committed suicide when I was 16. His whole family is crazy.) I would think the fact that even I, as sluggish and unhappy as I am, recognize that something needs to change is a sign that, you know, I can't do this anymore.

I am so angry at these people--my doctor, my nurse, my therapist. I have bared my soul (and my vagina) to them and they sit in judgement of me and declare me unworthy of help. I am so angry at myself for getting to this point.

And the worst part is, a little voice tells me that, you know, this is why I'm not a mom. Because I'm such a complete fucking basketcase that I can't take care of myself, let alone a child.