Author: Erica

pink flowers

(Secondary) Infertility Grief – When Does it Stop?

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***here is my disclaimer before you read this post – after you read it, you may find yourself thinking
A) Really? ANOTHER post on infertility? I thought she moved on, why can’t she get over this?
B) Wow, Erica is in a really bad place, she needs to get some professional help.
C) Boy, Erica is really self-centered. Doesn’t she see how great her life is, and yet here she is being overly dramatic…

Here are my short answers to the above questions:

A) Yes, another post on infertility. The grief process is not linear, and sometimes I may be doing okay, and other times I may really be struggling. Right now, I’m struggling.
B) I am getting help – I have a therapist and am also planning to meet with my doctor about taking medicine for deprssion/anxiety.
C) I do recognize that I have many wonderful things in my life to be thankful for. That doesn’t make this hurt any less. My grief is valid.

Lastly, there is no pressure to read the rest of this post if you’re not in the headspace to do so, or if your empathy muscles feel particularly weak at the moment. Writing this was helpful for me, and I thought I’d put it out there just in case it’s helpful for someone else.

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As exciting as it is for me to feel that I’ve very much healed from a traumatic experience with postpartum depression back in 2016, that victory feels overshadowed right now by what feels like a losing battle with grief.

I thought I was moving on. I thought I was healing from this. So why is it hurting so much again?

Back in January, I decided it was time to move on from the dream of having another child. It really felt like the right decision at the time. And I think it was.

I started pursuing other dreams and interests. I began training for a half marathon (I’m up to 8 miles now!), I got more involved in my church and in local community events, and it was all very good.

But last month, a last little bit of naive hope came bubbling back up to the surface, and I began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, it could be possible for pregnancy to happen for us? What if we just casually decided to try again? What if, what if, what if???

I made a deal with myself: we could begin casually trying for a baby again if (and only if) I could keep my cool during the process. There was no need for me to convince myself that I was pregnant, there was no need to think that every little symptom meant something, and I definitely wouldn’t get all upset when my period started. I would go into it, knowing our chances were slim to none, and that would be okay.

You would think after living with myself for over 36 years that I would know that there was no way I could be casual about this. And no surprise, I definitely was not!

I am ashamed to confess how quickly I devolved into past habits. In two weeks’ time, I convinced myself I was pregnant, went out and bought brand new (expensive!) pregnancy tests, and was devastated when the results were negative. Immediately, all the bitterness and rage came back. And I couldn’t believe it. How was I back in exactly the same place I had been 6 months ago? I thought I had processed this grief, I thought I had moved on!

Maybe I never really moved on, maybe I just deferred my grief and pain for a while.

I’m honestly scared to face the ultimate decision of permanently moving on. Right now, I continue to try to defer that moment by telling myself “I’m only 36, I have a few more years.”

Will it get easier then? Or do you just live with this constant pain all the time? And how do you do that gracefully?

In the past month, I’ve had four friends that have become pregnant. One of them with their first, three of them with their second child. And to be honest, it hurts. It hurts a lot.

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"on the road to healing"

July 26th – 7 Years of Slow and Steady Healing

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I almost forgot that today is July 26th – today used to be a day I dreaded, the anniversary of when I was admitted to the hospital for postpartum depression. I didn’t even register that today was a significant anniversary until I saw a Facebook memories post from 2 years ago when a friend had sent me flowers. I honestly don’t even think I would have remembered otherwise.

I take this as a good sign, a sign of healing. In one sense, 7 years is a long time. But in another sense, I feel good about the fact that in just 7 years, I’ve been able to process a very traumatic event and move past it. I’ve accepted it as part of my story, I’ve recognized how it has made me stronger and more empathetic to the struggle of others. It is a moment on my journey of life that has made me a better person.

July 26th is also the day that I started this blog – 6 years ago today, one year after experiencing postpartum depression, I created Threads of Anxiety. Sometimes I’m a little hit-or-miss as far as writing and publishing posts, but it’s been something I’ve enjoyed doing, I think it’s helped me become a better writer, and it’s certainly helped me process through some difficult events. In a way, writing is magic, it unlocks thoughts that you didn’t even know you had.

Blogging has also allowed me an avenue to share my story, which has been a huge part of my journey to healing.

Healing doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten the traumatic event, or that it doesn’t hurt a little to think about it. And healing doesn’t mean that I’m “back to my old self.” I’ve been forever changed. But it does mean that I’m moving forward and owning my story, and I’m so thankful to be where I am today.

I don’t know that I could have healed in isolation. There are so many people who have helped me along the way – therapists, my husband, friends, and family. There are people who have reached out to me after reading my blog just to say thanks for sharing it. Others have come up to me to tell me that they, too, were hospitalized for postpartum depression – I realized over and over again that I was not alone in my struggle.

To wrap up, I just want to take a moment to look July 26th in the eye and say, as Jennifer Connelly does in the movie Labyrinth…

You have no power over me.

pie graph describing emotions behind anger (like shame)

The Antidote to Shame – Share Your Story (thanks Brené!)

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I recently watched John Mulaney’s newest comedy special on Netflix called “Baby J.” I like John Mulaney, I think he’s funny. He’s got at least two or three other specials on Netflix from earlier years, but he hadn’t done anything in a while due to some crazy life circumstances he went through. His newest special, “Baby J,” is really him opening up about what the last 2-3 years had in store for him.

Obviously in the last 2-3 years, we ALL went through a little thing called COVID-19. So in a sense, all of our worlds were kind of rocked. But John Mulaney had a particularly difficult time, and he begins sharing that experience in the first few minutes of his show. He kicks it off by describing his process of finally having to deal with his drug addiction and going to rehab. And he does it in a way that is funny! I loved that he just came right out and talked about the elephant in the room. His entire special is about what’s it like to go to rehab, how he really didn’t want to go to rehab, and how badly the drug addiction had a hold on him. And I respect him so much for doing a special all about that. Yes, it’s funny – but it’s also so beautiful and real.

I have no experience with drug rehab, but I admit it did remind me a bit of going into the mental health hospital when I had postpartum depression. So maybe in the tiniest way, I felt like I could relate. I could relate to people being worried about me. I could relate to having to be away from friends and family in a facility that kind of felt like a prison, and where many of my basic rights and choices were taken away from me. But I was only in the hospital for a week. John Mulaney describes being in rehab for months.

Tom Felton's book: Beyond the Wand

It reminded me of another person who recently shared their experience of rehab and addiction: Tom Felton. Earlier this year I read his memoir, Beyond the Wand, and like with Mulaney’s special, I also remember being appreciative that he would share his story and be honest. His story started the same way John Mulaney’s did – with an intervention by friends and family. A bunch of people all gathered in a room for hours on end, trying to convince someone they love to agree to get help. Which both Felton and Mulaney eventually did.

Both Felton and Mulaney describe the intense anger that they had in those moments of confrontation. They both knew they were in bad places, and I don’t think either of them were surprised that they suddenly found themselves at the center of an intervention. But they both describe feeling livid.

What is it about others telling us that we need help that makes us get so angry? Why is anger our first emotion when people who love us want us to get healthier? Is anger covering up our shame? I would guess it’s something like that. And I think Brené Brown would guess that too.

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