Blah. Whatever. It’s not worth worrying about. I feel like the more I worry about it, the even less likely it will be that my ovaries will produce one of their little gems for me to use. And I don’t like the language, “well, you can adopt.” No. We can’t adopt. Although it would be my first choice of parenting, it’s not currently an option. Thanks for the advice. It’s also interesting how solo a journey this has been. As much as Iknow Joe loves me and wants to be a Dad…there’s nothing he can do about this part. He can tell me, “It’s ok. We’ll figure it out.” I know he’s disappointed about it though and that lands very close to being disappointed in me. I want to tell him that it’s ok, I’m disappointed in me, too. For years, I knew I didn’t ovulate. For Years! And then one doctor says, “well, there’s no reason to think you don’t,” and my whole fucking world exploded into hope and excitement. I should have just trusted myself in the first place. The grief and loss I have dealt with in the past around this is nothing to the hard, factual knowledge, that I was right.

And because this whole post is about me being a bitchy, whiney bum…people who have kids and don’t want them make me bonkers. Fucking bonkers. People who have kids and don’t appreciate them make me want to go ape-shit crazy. I’ve had a very different relationship with my work lately, too. I feel like I’m at one of those crossroads in my life where I need to change some things around. We’ll see. I’m sure this will all shake out over time. I just wonder what it will look like and what it will feel like. I wonder what it will feel like if we truly have to take parenting off the table. Right now it feels like I want to curl up into a ball and not get out of bed for a few days. Why am I so invested in this?

Well, there you have it. A lame post by me. I know  you’ve been waiting for it. Thanks for your patience.

I can’t stop thinking about it…put your good energy out there on Monday, pray if you pray, mediatate if you do that. Just hope that I can convince them that my experience is enough and what I don’t know, I can learn.

I’m sure that I want to parent. I’m sure we’ll be fine parents, silly parents, loving parents. But what about all the stuff we’re going to have to explain to our kids. What if they hate us for it? It’s at that point in my thought process that I wonder if we shouldn’t. Choosing to parent seems like a very selfish endeavor. Maybe the selflessness involved in parenting makes up for it somehow. I am scared to be a mother. What if I mess it up? What if I don’t?

Lots to think about. What do you think?

I should get back to it.

I came to Durango thinking I would be really uncomfortable here and instead I felt like I had come home. Big Chevy trucks are the transportation of choice. There are men smoking GPC’s and wearing filthy jeans, all talking about how they are going to get their cattle through this long and unbelievably cold and snowy winter. It was like being up North again. It was like being home. I got off the plane, nodded to the only dyke in town who was flagging in the plane, and made my way inside the one room airport. It was like Bangor. I rented a huge, red Chevy Silverado and hit the back roads. I put the country station on and settled into America. That’s when I saw the sign with the scantily-clad Ute woman on it. “Come see the biggest Ute reservation in the U.S.!”

I looked around at the rolling hills and mountains. I could see for miles. One of the differences about the West is that the land goes on and on and on. I could see for miles and I knew that none of that land would support the biggest anything in the United States. It’s all desert out there. It’s as cold as Santa’s balls in the winter and hotter than hell in the summer. There isn’t any shade or water or escape. It’s just hard land. I don’t know how many people live on that reservation that butts up against Ute Mountain and the Navajo Reservation and the Pueblo, as well.

In college I spent many long nights reading the creation stories of these people. I found a connection to a spirituality (as it was explained to me by various authors) that I had never felt before. Under no circumstances did I think I was Native American. I just felt connected to something that I couldn’t really explain. Driving those back roads of Durango it occured to me that I don’t know much about what it means to live on a reservation, to be oppressed on every level of my life, to know that my ancestors were murdered, raped, and subjected to horrors I can’t even begin to fathom.

Later, when I was working in the clinic, I worked with a Navajo woman. Her first language was Navajo. I was trying to explain what was going to happen to her that day and she looked very confused and afraid. She had never had a pap smear. She had very little understanding of how her body worked. I tried to reassure her that we were going to take very good care of her. It hit me like a ton of bricks…she didn’t trust me or anyone else in our faciltity. Why should she? How many hundreds of thousands of times has she heard from the white lady that it would all be ok. It will be ok when we steal your land, make you eat food that makes you sick, give you medicine that makes you even sicker. Yeah, I was going to take real good care of her, sure. Right. Honestly, what would the difference be if I walked into a clinic on the South side of Chicago and told all the folks there that I was going to help them, take good care of them. Jesus, how presumtuous of me. I don’t have the first clue what that would look like. I want to know but I certainly don’t come to the table with that knowledge. I’ll tell you what though…I have always thought coming to the table with respect, honor, and compassion was enough. It helped, for sure, but it wasn’t enough.  

Durango has haunted me since I left. I want to go back; I would live there. It’s nice to have a choice. It’s real nice.

I got a call from a friend last night wondering if she could come over and just be with some company. She is having hard times with her boyfriend and just needed to get out of her house. It was so nice to have someone come over and curl up on my couch. I haven’t had that in 2 years. I didn’t get out of my jammies to have her over, we didn’t do anything special other than sit on the couch and laugh our asses off…and she had some tears, too. It was ok though. She was surrounded by love. Joe loves this one, too. She’s good people.

Sitting in my livingroom surveying my life and my love and my home I felt satisfied for the first time in a long time. It doesn’t matter that my kitchen is carpeted and that our toilet requires an acrobat’s flexibility to sit on. it doesn’t matter because in the last six weeks we’ve filled this space with so much love and joy that it feels like a home. It feels like a place that I would like people to come and be. We didn’t have that at our last place and I feel so blessed to have this new space. It makes living here so much easier.

So I’m blessed on a lot of levels. I am blessed that I was able to go home and be with my family and I’m blessed that I came back to a sweet life to which I never give enough credit. I came home to a man who loves me more than he can usually say. The plane landed and I was pissed. I didn’t want to be here again, and yet as I came up the escalator and saw his smile, I knew that it would have been a huge mistake to stay.

I put everything back and silently walked out with Joe following behind me saying, “I don’t understand, nothing fit at all?” I just kept walking. I could feel my jaw tense and my eyes start to sting with tears. I walked faster. I couldn’t get away…from myself. My fat self. My size 20 to 22 self just kept the pace I was setting. When I reached the car the tears came and I gave in to the feelings of disgust, self-hatred, and loathing. I gave in to the voice that plays in my head when I do things that I think only thin people should do…like shop. Or fuck. Or swim. Or run. Or eat. Or breathe. 

The whole time this is happening in my head (it doesn’t take that long for all of those thoughts to race through it. They are well-practiced and they no longer need a map.) Joe was sitting next to me shaking his head, perplexed at my irrationality. He said, “So what are you going to do?” I told him I didn’t know. I guess I’d lose weight and go back and try again…because don’t you know babe that fat people don’t deserve to look good? Fat people, people like me, should just stay inside and hope that one day they can be thin, too. He was devastated by the horrible things that I let myself say about myself. It hurts him that I can say those things about myself.

This morning I woke up and poured myself a cup of java and decided to see what was on the internets. I stumbled upon this:  http://kateharding.net/ and I realized that I am not alone in this. I’m not disgusting (and even as I write that, I start to tear up because on some level I really do believe that I am). I am sexy and I am smart and being fat doesn’t change those things.

She talked about The Fantasy of Being Thin…I’ve lived so long with this fantasy in my life that I’m fairly certain the world would implode if I started thinking otherwise. Certainly there would be some kind of fallout, right? Something terrible would happen if I didn’t kneel at the low-fat, carb-free, sugar-free altar of shame. Right? Right? Wrong. Something fantastic would happen…maybe for once I’d stop the litany of self-loathing bullshit and find a pair of pants that fit. That’s what we’re talking about here, that’s what shattered my tenuous self-esteem last night, pants. I was broken down by fucking pants. If I went up a size I’d lose some of my what?…self respect? No, chances are I’d just have pants. Rationally, I understand that. Emotionally, I don’t. I just don’t. When did I become this person? When did I become someone who gives a shit about what other people think? When did I become such a miserable sod that I can’t buy a pair of pants?

I think self-pity might live right next door to self-loathing and I think I live right across the street. It’s time for me to stop thinking that “someday I’ll get thin” and just start living my life…as a fat person. I will never be 125 pounds again. Ever. And I have to get right with the Lord around that one. That doesn’t make me a bad person or less valuable. It just makes me fat and in need of a pair of pants.

Shit.

I feel like I have a vague notion of what it will mean for us to try to have a baby. But I don’t really know. I have read so many blogs of women who are infertile and who spend thousands and thousands of dollars to get pregnant. We don’t have that kind of money. I don’t have that kind of desire. I just don’t.  I have decided to chart my cycle for at least 6 months to see where I’m at. Right now we’re in the information seeking stage. I don’t know if this is even possible. Also, we need some sperm. Preferably brown in DNA. I’m not sure that this will work…but it will be wonderful to figure it out.

He said, as he buried his face in my neck, ”If we wait until we’re ready, we’ll never do it.”

So we’re giving it a shot. It’s hard to get excited about something that I have told myself I could never have. I have mourned and grieved the idea of ever getting pregnant. My ovaries are like landmines. I don’t even know if they are going to work.  There are so many people who say they feel like failures; Joe has said he feels like less of a man because he can’t get me pregnant. I don’t see it as a failure. I don’t see this as my fault. I don’t think it’s Joe’s fault. If this doesn’t work, that doesn’t mean we won’t be parents. We will. I know that we will.

I’m back. I had to check on the percolating. It’s done…and it’s tasty!