If you are not already a fan of Hyperbole and a Half- I recommend going and reading all the back issues and the two about pages and everything else. It's utter brilliance in a blog and her latest blog about her ongoing depression sums it up perfectly. Since I took a pause in the blogging, things haven't really got better or worse. There have been some amazing explosions of sobbing that have lasted hours and at least a moment of panic everyday. One of the best emotional explosions was during an episode of The New Normal where one of them was being a hypochondriac about their puppy, they take it to the vet where it is diagnosed with gas and all of a sudden THE DOG FREAKING DIES! Now, animal deaths are never going to be easy but when an analogy is made between the baby that their surrogate is having and their dog- I think the comment made was, "You can do everything right but things can still go wrong."
Let me make this clear, this wasn't a muffled sniff into a pillow. There were sobs, choking sounds, sniffs, snotting, red, swollen eyes and a very confused husband. As he said, he could entirely understand my sadness but didn't know quite how to make the sad stop. I didn't either and until I had downed a full bottle of wine, didn't manage to make the sad stop until a full hour and a half afterwards when I was screaming obscenities at the television during Question Time.
We're in the process of buying a house and I'm being a bit shit. I have some money in an account that was left there by my grandfather and bizarrely, aged 30 and a half, I still have to get my parents signatures to be able to release this money... Oh yes, a conversation with the Pru and half an hour into them telling me the next steps, they suddenly say, "I'm terribly sorry but we can't discuss this with you"- now I don't play being a grown up terribly well but needing my mum to speak to them was a bit of a joke! Anyway, I had kept putting off getting the money out- my usual self-sabotage. I am very good at self-sabotage, it's like my opt out at doing anything because at least then it's my fault that it got screwed up and I have control over it going wrong! Proper screw loose eh?! So Paul had a moan at me, which was much deserved. Just a bit on the terrified scale that both it falls through and that it could go through. If it falls through, there's a chance we might have to move to one of our parents' houses and a lot of money has already gone in to surveyors and mortgages. If it goes through, we have a back garden and three bedrooms. I'm trying to visualise them as being the Dianna and the Kat rooms but we all know that is highly unlikely to happen as both of my girls are getting married in the next year and have their own homes (way more grown up than my stunted 12 year old self). Realistically, they are two empty rooms.
Two empty rooms that have the chance to go the way of our cupboards of doom. I have spent three days of emptying out our cupboard of doom at the back of the front room during this half term. Three days of sorting utter crap and memories. Letters from dead people, cards from children who are now adults and signed Manics photographs. I shouldn't really be surprised that today was another sad day. After getting back from school, I laid down on P's sofa and tortured myself whilst weeping for a good hour. Jester tried to soak up the tears but in the end, she turned into something a little like that Spaniel that was lent to Joey as the world's most happiest dog but after listening to him whinge about Rachel, became a depressed mess. I read about that baby who was stuck in the toilet pipe. I read about the baby who is currently killing its mother (there is a reason to be pro-choice!). I then followed links about stillborn and miscarried babies- the god bothering links and the never thought it would happen to me links, all the while weeping. Suddenly realised that Paul would be heading home soon and I needed to crack on with the cupboard. So I carried on crying in the cupboard but being a bit more useful by doing stuff at the same time.
Whilst some of the stuff was heartbreaking- the Baby-On-Board badge from TFL that is still in its envelope, letters from the hospital detailing the last two miscarriages, various demands for bloods, x-rays and scans, letters from our dead neighbour detailing how to sort our rubbish according to house rules (seriously!). Other bits weren't so sad but still brought more tears- memories of being sisters abroad with photos and letters saying how much we loved our supposedly short-term family (not at all short term,as the ones that matter are still in touch!), pictures of fancy dress parties aged 15- oh how risque we were, dressing as Rocky Horror characters tee hee! Bad poetry detailing my obsession with disappearing, 5k running photos, posed photos for local papers with A Level results. I think I upset my mum the other day when I said that I feel like if I dropped dead tomorrow, I would have done enough with my life. Whilst I understand her horror, my feelings remain the same: I married the love of my life; I have the job of my dreams; I did the uni thing, twice; I have lived in another country; I have the loopiest best-est friends in the whole wide world who I don't really deserve as I am being a proper shit friend, they're still there though; I have been to the point where I had to make a decision where I was either going to die or start living. I have done a lot. Perhaps not enough to say that's it but enough that if I was hit by a double-decker bus, I wouldn't be too gutted other than in a literal sense...
So P came home this evening, knowing that I wasn't a happy bunny. He asked me what would make me feel better and other than my tears springing back for what would really make me happy, we decided on a cuddle for the meantime. P then tried the smile and giggle route and said, "It will happen you know. We'll get our baby. One day it won't be a broken baby and we'll get to cuddle it. I'll stop giving you broken sperm and we will have our baby." At the comment of broken sperm, I reminded him that it was me that was broken and he carried one with the giggle therapy. There really is something about cuddling up close with someone, half squashing each other, feeling the warmth of the other person's body and hearing their heart beating that does amazing things for sad days. I remember Harry, my uni counsellor (not my bottle opener), once said, "Sarah, you are leaving this room. Stop floating away and get a grip of the ground you are on." Noticing things really helps to keep you in the present and not dwelling on the obscure- I remember after one bout of depression, I noticed the buds of new leaves on the trees for the first time ever (in 23 years!). It was a real turning point in my life. My latest learning point is that I cannot spend my holidays alone. I need to be around people, I guess that's why I am a teacher- people constantly needing me and chatter (P keeps complaining that I make weird noises during the holidays- squeaks, roars and overly loud yawns.) I also have learnt the importance of hugs. Proper hugs where you really squeeze someone - with the recent events in Woolwich, a lot of our kids have needed extra cuddles and the adults definitely needed hugs too. As a teenager, I hated bodily contact but now, I need hugs and squeezes and cuddles until the unbroken baby comes.
