Indecisive and Frustrated

Jean Paul Sartre ain’t got nothin’ on me, lately. My brain has been locked in a loop for the past few days, spinning in circles as I worry over this and that, searching for the meaning I’m supposed to be creating in my own life.

First there’s the never ending infertility treatment vs. losing weight debate. I’ve gained 10 pounds since Easter, when we found out Nora was dying. So instead of being seven pounds from where I wanted to be, I’m 17 pounds from where I wanted to be. Aside from being pissed off at myself for gaining the weight, even though I’m not entirely sure what I could have done differently, I’m upset that I’m that much farther from being where I thought I should be to start fertility treatments. And so round and round I go in my head. Do I take three more months, focus as hard as I possibly can, and see if I can’t ditch those 17 pounds? I sit around concocting these convoluted plans where I work out every morning and evening and turn myself in to a little mini-athlete. Or, do I say fuck it, and just jump into treatment now? I even briefly considered trying to convince myself that maybe I don’t want children, but I had to call shenanigans on myself for that. Yeah, that whole intense longing/sadness/wistfulness thing that happens every time someone I know (or don’t know, a la Nicole Richie) gets pregnant, has a baby or even sends me a picture of their kid is a pretty good indicator that I want kids. And that’s kids, plural, and here I am 36 years old and needing to get my shit together and get moving.

Not to mention my continuing ambivalence about fertility treatment. I don’t want to do IVF. I know that’s exactly where I’m headed, and it’s not that I have any moral objection to it. I just don’t want to have to do it. I’ve never been able to make peace with the notion that I’m not going to get pregnant without some sort of intervention or assistance. Although four years in to this process, I probably need to start working on my accepting skills.

On top of that, my job is extra challenging right now, so whichever parts of my brain aren’t taken up plotting exercise schedules or wondering about infertility are busy struggling with work. I have one project that is extremely complex and taking a lot more effort to get off the ground than I thought it would, and another that clearly is not going to make its goals for August. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I may not even be doing anything wrong, but I had this moment today where I thought, “Oh crap, they are going to declare you a fraud and demote you back down to marketing manager where you can’t do any harm.” Which may, just may, have bit a bit of over-dramatizing on my part. Hey, I had to go to the dentist today. That always gets me a little high-strung.

And finally the creative side of my life just isn’t happening. Oh sure, I still write copy at work from time to time, but that’s not the kind of creativity I mean. My writing here has been mostly crap for months now. I’ve only been happy with a few of the posts I’ve written the last few months. I had a great idea for a graphic novel something like two years ago, and I haven’t done a damn thing with it. John and I came up with a bunch of cool stories on our non-vacation last October, and I haven’t done anything with any of mine. John’s got a whole outline written for one of his ideas, and I’ve got a shiny, empty notebook sitting next to the couch waiting for me to fill it with my brilliance. The ideas are there. I just can’t get them to come out properly. All the thoughts and words are jumbled up in my head. Writers write, but I’m not writing. I’m not doing anything. And that’s got to change.