So, I am standing in the restaurant bathroom and my eyes meet my eyes in the mirror and I am standing with my shirt pulled up and my pants pulled down and a pinch of fat between my fingers and a syringe in my hand I cannot really say I recognize that person, it seems so surreal. And yet....
And yet, here I go again. Can I confess something? This time feels a bit like "whatever"-- inevitability tinged with futility, must do it, just to have done it, managing my future regret.
I sure as hell hope that by some miracle, on saturday when we look for follicle growth, that there'll be lots and they'll be happy looking and that somehow I will turn the corner from this semi-defeatist attitude toward something more positive. It is not that I am devoid of hope, it is just that this feels so distant and I have to dig down to get to hope, and it is kind of yellowed and curling at the corners.
I imagine that I will be fine, maybe even tomorrow, I will wake up to frost sparkling and somehow be reattached to rightnow in a way that feels better. I know attitude matters, but shit.
I feel crappy about feeling crappy, know it will pass (it always does), remind myself of the mindfuck that is DHEA, of the sub conscious impact of the sore belly, of the clock watching, of the awareness in most moments of what comes next, which shots, what time, which appointment, when.... it is consuming.
Yeah, that kind of mood.
But, no worries! Tomorrow I will wake up fine. I know it. I do that. I bounce.