Like So

Ranting, raving, burning bridges and moving forward.

MmmBop Made Me Cry

So most of you guys know that I’m a major advocate for staying on anti-depressants during pregnancy.

This time for me however, things became complicated because I was on a very high dose of cym.balta and my psychiatrist thought it was better if I taper down to a lower dose once I was knocked up.

So as soon as I saw two lines, per my shrink’s orders, I cut my dose in half. The thing about that was that it meant the cym.balta wasn’t really doing the job it was supposed to any more, leaving me to rely on pregnancy-safe anti-anxiety meds.

Last week, I had a follow up with my shrink to see what was up, and we both decided that since I couldn’t re-up my dosage of cym.balta, and I was relying on the anti-anxiety meds anyway, I may as well just quit the cym.balta altogether.

I took my last 30mg pill on Thursday.

The day before yesterday, I went out to lunch with my mom. On the way home I decided that for the first time ever, I was going to buy Baby-lon 5 a present. I have never done that in ANY of my pregnancies. I don’t know what came over me but I just decided to do it. Some sort of magical thinking BS I’m sure.

So I bought Baby-lon a stuffed bunny.

Then I came home and started crying, and couldn’t stop for the next 3 hours.

At the time, I seriously just thought it was the bunny and me taking such a huge leap.

Then I woke up the next morning and the brain zaps started.

Basically, for those of you lucky enough not to know, “brain zaps” sometimes happen when you stop taking an anti-depressant. It pretty much feels like someone connected a live electrical wire to your head and is upping the wattage every few minutes.

In short – it is not fun. Needless to say I spent the day in bed yesterday.

While in bed, I watched TV. A promo for the finale of our local Masterchef competition came up.

And I started crying. And I couldn’t stop.

Today, still at home contending with the “zappies” as I have decided to affectionately call them, I was scrolling through Buzzfeed and they had posted a modern version of Mmmbop, claiming it was better than the original (spoiler alert: it is):

So I happily watched it and halfway through I lost. my. shit.

I cried over Mmmbop. For almost an hour. That actually happened.

Please oh wise and powerful spaghetti monster, make the withdrawal stop.




When Shit Hits the Fan

Last night I had a fight with one of my oldest friends.

He was frustrated with me because he felt like I was pushing him away, and I was having some seriously complicated feelings about him.

Up until a year ago, whenever he and I met up, we would get into these intense conversations that almost became therapy sessions. We both got a lot out of them and left them feeling not only better about ourselves, but truly appreciating our friendship.

Then, last year, 11 months ago, the shit hit the fan and I lost my son.

Since then I haven’t only been pushing my friend away. With the exception of a handful of people, I’ve been pushing EVERYONE away.

My fight with my friend last night brought that all into sharp relief. I realized why I had been pushing him away. Because I didn’t want to talk about Nadav all the time. I didn’t need more intense therapy sessions. I didn’t want to spend every single conversation analyzing my feelings. I didn’t want that kind of help.

A strange thing happens when a true tragedy strikes you. Well, a couple of strange things actually.

The first is that you stop sweating the small stuff. Whereas once you would spend hours or days over analyzing little intrigues, or thinking the small problems to death, that all kind of stops. Because everything is tiny in comparison to the shitstorm you just went through.

The second thing that happens, is that rather than wanting to talk about it, you long to escape it. Hopefully you’re seeking professional help so you have some sort of outlet, but other than that you just want to get away from it. Because whenever you realize the gravity of what’s happened to you, you simply can’t believe that this is your life.

So you talk about it when you absolutely have no choice, yes. But if a few months have passed since the shit has hit the fan you don’t seek out the topic in conversation.

You don’t want your friends’ help. You don’t want them to help “fix” your problem. Because true tragedy is NEVER fixed. The volume may come down on it, yes. You may go from thinking about it 24/7 to once or twice a day. If you’re lucky, once or twice a week.

But none of it can be “fixed”.

And through the fight with my friend last night I finally realized this. It finally became clear. I keep away from people because I’m afraid they will try to “fix” me.

I keep away because I’m afraid they’ll want to talk about it when I don’t want to talk about it.

And then I realized that a much better solution would be to just tell them that I don’t want to talk about it. To just make it clear that they shouldn’t treat me like I’m made of spun sugar. They should treat me like they used to, with one exception:

To listen when I am ready to talk, and to respect me when I don’t want to talk.

And to never ever try to fix what will eternally be broken.



I once tried playing Farmville, just so I could understand what the big deal was and why everyone kept asking me to send them cows. I didn’t last long. A couple of days maybe before my crops withered and I got bored of the concept. I just didn’t get it.

I thought I was above it all.

I was so incredibly wrong.

A while after Farmville I got a request for Frontierville. That’s when I first got hooked. It wasn’t because Frontierville was revolutionary. Instead of building a farm you built a home on the frontier. There were still cows to be milked, crops to be planted, and trees to be chopped. So what was so different?

Ahh – it was the quests!

You see, Frontierville introduced us all to quests. You didn’t just plant crops, you got REWARDS for planting certain crops on demand.

And what were those rewards, you may be wondering…?

It was more crops. Or Xp. Basically the online equivalent of gold star stickers or smiley faces, only you didn’t actually get a sticker. I mean, you got a virtual sticker, but you can’t decorate your fridge with a virtual sticker, now can you?

But somehow I was hooked. For 6 months I built up my frontier. I crafted things in my work cabin. I was an online pioneer! Or something!

Then one day I woke up and realized the futility of what I was doing. I wasn’t actually getting anything out of this game. There was no winning of any kind. Just a perpetual level-up system. I felt cheated. I deactivated my account and moved on.

Or so I thought.

About a year later I was introduced to yet another “ville”. Castleville. I couldn’t resist it. There were fairies! And cute bunnies frolicking! And…! Princesses! And….! Fairies!

(and planting crops and milking cows)

Yes folks, I had fallen in the trap once again. Once again I was milking cows, harvesting crops, and crafting virtual goods, all for the sake of those freaking virtual gold stars.

I became obsessed with “leveling up”. Whenever I was a few points away from it I would desperately use up my energy sources just to reach the coveted next level.

And guess what happened when you reached that next level?

Nothing. Nada. Zero.

I got a pretty little picture and blue stars erupting on my screen. That’s about it.

How in the holy hell did I fall for this again?

You know how the last time I fell into the clutches of Frontierville for six months?

This time, folks, I fell into the clutches of a ‘ville for over a year and a half.

Yep – a year and a half. Because of fairies, bunnies, and blue XP stars.

How the mighty have fallen.

I’m a supposedly intelligent, well-educated 32-year-old woman, and I spent a year and a half of my life milking virtual cows and harvesting virtual crops.

I finally broke free of this, the latest of the ‘ville addictions a few weeks ago, when I once again realized that YOU CAN’T WIN THESE GAMES.

For some reason I keep forgetting that.

Let’s just hope I remember it long enough to ignore the latest invite I have for “Chefville”.

No wonder Zynga is a multi-billion dollar company. Le sigh.

My avatar on Castleville. Is it just me or is she looking a little bitter?

My avatar on Castleville. Is it just me or is she looking a little bitter?


Maternity Manifesto

I will start by finally letting the cat out of the bag:

I am pregnant. Again.

That would be pregnancy number five for those of you keeping count. That’s 5 pregnancies, no healthy alive children as of yet.

I’m about 5.5 weeks along at this point, and surprisingly feeling rather zen about it so far.

Part of the reason I moved on from my old blog was that the thought of keeping up the “norms” of a newly pregnant infertile blogger made me a little queasy. And not from morning sickness. I just wanted out of there.

Let me explain.

Here’s what the blog of a pregnant infertile woman is supposed to look like:

Week 1: The newly pregnant infertile posts a picture of her positive home pregnancy test. If she’s truly ambitious, she may even show a progression of pee sticks and how the test line got gradually darker from day to day. Then the preggo infertile will proceed to say how happy and grateful she is, and of course she will not forget to mention how she’s kind of nervous that things will go wrong.

Week 2a: The pregnant infertile will post her first blood test results happily, then proceed to analyze that result ad-nauseam, speculating about whether it’s a good number or a bad one. If she’s truly ambitious, she may post her first “bump pic.” Not because there’s anything to see yet, but so she’ll have something to compare it to later.

Week 2b: Blood test number 2 happens. She speculates about how fast it doubled. She then once again gushes about how grateful she is, and how cautious she is, and how anxious.

Weeks 2-3: It’s first ultrasound time! This is a crossroad. Some pregnant infertiles don’t get past this point, and that sucks. But most see a lovely heartbeat on their ultrasound, then proceed to go on their blogs, post a picture of the black speck that is their soon-to-be baby, and make up a pithy nickname for said black speck. Truly ambitious women will at this point start doing the weekly “bumpdate” where they list their symptoms and start comparing their soon-to-be-babies to fruit. Yes, fruit.

Week 4: If the pregnant infertile started her pregnancy under the care of a fertility clinic, this is the point where you will find an excited, perky post about “graduating” to a regular OB. The bumpdates and fruit comparisons continue. As do the claims of gratefulness and anxiety. The pregnant infertile will not dare to complain about morning sickness, weight gain, or feeling gassy, for fear of an angry bitter backlash from her infertile readers.

Second Trimester: After the pregnant infertile reaches the 12-weeks-pregnant mark, more often than not, the only signs of life on her blog will be those weekly fruit comparisons and listing of symptoms. This is because once the pregnant infertile reaches the “safety” of the second trimester, she no longer knows how to handle her readers. She is most likely no longer anxious, or is not nearly as anxious as she was during the first trimester. She therefore feels guilty about being happy for herself, and is deathly afraid of being shunned by her infertile readers.

Third Trimester: The pregnant infertile will go back to updating more often because ZOMG she just started planning her nursery, and most of her infertile readers have either abandoned her at this point, flamed her anonymously a few times, or have made peace with her pregnant status. Therefore her guilt and resulting over-sensitivity abate slightly, and she begins writing again. At this point the daring pregnant infertile will also start talking about birth plans.

After Birth: There are really three paths here. The first, is that the now mommy-infertile posts a picture of her take-home-baby and birth story, and then abandons her blog completely without an announcement or fanfare. The second, is that the child ends up in the NICU for a while and the mommy-infertile posts a bit about that experience then disappears. The third is that the once infertility blog becomes one of thousands of mommy blogs, chronicling everything from breastfeeding to cloth diapering.

And there you have it. I’ve seen it hundreds of times.

And I’m sooooo over it. I’m sick of being the “pregnant infertile blogger”. I’m sick of reading them. I’ve been reading them for years. No wonder I want to abandon the herd.

Yeah, I’m pregnant. For the fifth time. So I’ve been there. I’ve posted the black speck pictures. I’ve gushed and spilled my anxiety, all while remaining “sensitive” to still-in-the-trenches readers. I’ve made up pithy nicknames. I’ve taken a picture of my muffin top in the bedroom mirror. I am however proud to say in all of my pregnancies I have not once compared my baby to fruit. Thank goodness for small favors.

The fact is, that if all goes well, approximately 6.5 weeks from now I will be going on six months of strict bed rest, in the hopes of keeping this thing in my ute as long as possible. So yeah, after four rounds I’m kind of over the tightrope walk that is being a pregnant infertile woman. No wonder I moved on from my old blog. I don’t want this to be a pregnancy-after-infertility-and-loss blog. Just writing out the expectations left me exhausted. I just want to write here about anything that’s on my mind. My ute is secondary to my mind.

I’ll keep you all posted about how it’s going, when there’s something interesting to post about. But please, if you see me doing any of the above BS, kick me or something. Just not in the stomach please. That would be bad.

Also – if all you’re interested in is the outcome of this pregnancy only from a morbid “when will this go south” perspective, and if you’re curious only because of my history, please go away now. You will be disappointed, because this blog was not created to chronicle the goings-on in my ute. I’m done with that. Even if those goings-on will be trapping me in bed for six months.

Oh – and I do reserve the right to create a pithy nickname, strictly for practical purposes, because I hate using the words “fetus” or “embryo”.

In fact – the pithy nickname has already been chosen. And it has nothing to do with fruit.

Ok, now you want to know the pithy nickname don’t you? Fine.

It’s Baby-lon 5 .

Sci-Fi geeks rejoice.


Yeah, Still Crazy.

See? This is why I’m so happy I started this new blog. I have nothing specific to write about, but I felt like writing, so here I am, writing. Boom!

Or something.

You know what? I do have something to write about. So there.

Something weird has happened lately. I’ve felt this sort of 180 shift in terms of the way my brain functions. In fact, it’s been so extreme I can’t quite tell if this is me being healthy or this is me being completely detached from my emotions.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m still depressed, I still have issues functioning. But there are profoundly less ZOMG THE WORLD IS ENDING EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE thought cycles.

Things aren’t perfect around these parts by a long shot, but I’m less anxious about them. It’s all very creepy to me because I’m so used to freaking out about ALL THE THINGS all the time.

And that’s not happening. Yet I don’t think I’m emotionally detached because a couple of days ago I re-watched Forrest Gump and cried like a bitch. So that’s proof of being emotionally connected right? RIGHT?

I don’t know. I’m just not used to this level of QUIET.

It’s weird. Like really weird.

Ok so how does one test if one is emotionally detached other than watching tear-inducing movies? Because I think I need a test.

They should make an online quiz. After all, self-diagnosing mental illness is the best thing ever.

Then again, I can probably guess that I’m still as crazy as usual because I’m freaking out over NOT freaking out.

Yeah, I’m totes normal.