Breaking Point

It seems like there should be some sort of description of how I went from all of these proactive things I was doing to help myself (and us) to the utter defeat and despair noted in the post below. While it escalated with the conversation between C and myself this weekend, I am unable to detail that out of regard for C's fear of looking like an a**hole (his word). But I can and will convey how I got to this point because it may help you, it may help you understand, or it may help me - who knows.

When we last left off this sad story, I was experiencing crazy menstrual cycles. Still am for the most part. And this indicates something is wrong with the system, but we already knew that because I can't get pregnant. Since I'm not seeing any of my doctors for this right now (we'll delve into that later), no labs or charts or scans will verify that A, B, or C is wrong. So I just am.

Physical therapy became a joke sometime in June, when I began working back at the PT clinic where I was being treated. My PT became pregnant after four really difficult months (her words) of trying. Whether PT worked/works for me, I couldn't say, because she seemed to have a very difficult time just being my PT during my sessions. She would talk all about her pregnancy (knowing my issues - presuming she could help me with my issues), coworkers, her family, her friends, her irritation with this and that. When you are pushing around my abdomen (which I don't like touched) and poking around my vagina, I don't need you to be anyone but my professional PT. Not a friend, not a coworker, not an entitled pregnant gal, just be my practitioner, okay? My feelings were convoluted, so I stopped PT with her. Then she broke me. I handle her schedule and suddenly, the pregnant lady (who never forgets to remind us all that she's pregnant - with three IF gals in the same office) is entitled to extra breaks that have to be worked into her booked schedule immediately. You know, for the two days she actually works. I wrote her off. She had the gall to come to me and throw a hissy fit regarding the lack of sympathy she was receiving from the bosses. Yeah, I didn't have any sympathy for her either. And I do not need people around who can't show the slightest bit of consideration for me or others. No more PT for me.

This PT recommended a massage therapist who had "magic hands" and specialized in Mayan abdominal techniques. He could possibly help with my IBS, digestion, bloating, cramping, AND infertility issues! I enjoyed filling out his six page intake form (I do like forms) and was eager to give him a shot. When we spoke on the phone, it felt like we were on the same page about my issues - I was in this more for the digestion issues than the IF issues. I'm not sure exactly what to say about the actual experience. He poked and prodded and the massage part was great, but the elbow half way into my pelvis while asking me if I miscarried because I wasn't ready for a baby had me gasping with tears and for breath and in total pain. I know abdominal pain and when you combine someone else causing you pain with questions and statements that feel akin to hot pokers in your heart region, ahhhh, you need to tell them to STOP. But I didn't because this, surely, is supposed to happen because this is what this man does. I need to remember to be my self's strongest defender. What this man did was NOT okay with me and I did not find it helpful at the time or now, five weeks later. I should let him know this, but I am chicken and not a warrior, so I just cancelled my next appointment.

It took me a week to discuss that experience with those closest to me, mainly C and AM, but eventually my sis and mom too. There are still conflicting and regretful feelings surrounding that experience. One result that forced me to discuss it was my personal space issues became immediately more acute. Oh, you weren't aware of my personal space issues? Well, they are why we don't hug, or if we do, it is always awkward. Very few exceptions to this. If we do hug and it doesn't feel awkward to you, there are three things that could be going on: you are a terrible hugger, you are an oblivious hugger, or I actually trust and like you enough to let you into my space. I didn't let C touch me when we began dating. I've always thought that hugs were more personal (and sometimes more sexual) than kissing. I do not like people to touch me unless I've let them into my circle. If you touch me and I don't want you to, you run the risk of being yelled at and possibly hit. I don't care for close-talkers and I believe everyone is entitled to three feet of personal space in a bubble form around them. I just don't like to be touched.

Which means that the constant violation of my body by doctors and practitioners is uncomfortable, to say the least. I've been stabbed with needles (taking blood and pushing fake hormones with lovely side effects), probed in both nether region orifices by sonogram wands, speculums, catheters, and fingers, cut on and internally cauterized, under an xray with dye pushed the wrong way through my tubes, pushed, pulled, and apparently elbowed in the abdomen. I've had nurses call me a few times with good news, but many many more times with news of failure, disappointment, and despite numbers in front of them, the unknown. I've had doctors refer me to other doctors who refer me to other doctors who all need to touch me. These are the things that I've let others do to me.

I'm sick of it. All. I told C that I was done about four weeks ago. I can't stand people touching me, doing things to me anymore - even though I know they're trying to help me and I essentially asked them to. I said I was done with all of it. I was all fired up to begin researching adoption, to find out what we needed to do. I was just waiting on the go-ahead from C. Which, isn't what I received at all.

Guess I'd better look over all of this again.

- Posted from my mobile phone