A post over at my bloggy friend's place got me thinking about the online venting space that is the blogosphere.
Something happened with my boobs last night and I made a mental note to remember to blog about it next time I got the chance. And yep, that was about the most exciting thing that happened last night, so strap yourselves in people - this is going to be GREAT!
And just now, even though I am shamefully without tea, I had the chance to blog before Jay wakes up. So I signed right on in to my humble little Blogger space and was going to write this semi-angsty diatribe chronicling how my two-week wait was going.
Only I am a journalist, have I mentioned that before?, and I wanted to check one fact before I started writing. (It's an occupational hazard and a compunction.) I was going to go and grab my phone and bring up the calendar to see how far into the two-week wait I was...how far away I was from the day when I was going to do a pregnancy test. This week has been a blur and I know the FET was only a few days back there, but some weeks the days blend into one. Even this week.
But then I thought about my bloggy friend's post and suddenly didn't care to check at all. I didn't feel diatribe-curious or even diatribic, if that is indeed a word. I thought I'd not only take her lead a tiny bit, but practice some of that calm I've been preaching these past few weeks.
I understand her point that allocating space in the globe's biggest publishing free-for-all to describe experiences of the torture, trauma and a gruelling sort of stress that only this situation can create will somehow "cement how bad it is" in her head. That writing it down somehow makes it worse, gives it a new, perhaps nastier life.
We agree there is catharsis in that.
But I also feel an almost-physical release after that catharsis. Yes, all the anxiety and all my craziness and all the bad day blues do gain more credence all of a sudden when they are allowed to channel through words to form the shapes of the letters you are reading now.
But this kind of spirit is possessing my mind, my typing fingers and my emotions for only a temporary moment. Like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost when she conducts those seances and goes into trances after being "possessed" by dead people. Sure they come in, but they also go out. And unlike some people who can/or claim to be able to do that sort of stuff, I am not exhausted or drained afterwards as is often the consequence, I believe...or at least Whoopi seemed awful bushed after that scene, so I feel I have some knowledge of these things. Personally after I blog about this stuff, I feel lighter.
I told my fellow blogger and TTCer that I think of some of these words as the stuff of a Viking funeral. Strange, I know, but I think of the more fraught posts as sitting atop a raft before being lit on fire and set off to be claimed by the oceanic elements. Gone.
Alright, not entirely gone, but weakened in its potential to do me harm. And that's a good thing. For me.
Ok, Jay is up, but I wanted to tell you about my boobs. Haha. Anyway, I was watching the footy on teev last night and had cause to rub my chest. Not in a Samantha Fox way (please) but I had a scratch or something.
Anyway I noticed a particular nip-ular area of one boob to be quite tender. Not crazy tender, but sensitive. Instantly I thought "I am pregnant, I must be." So I felt a little more, rubbed a little harder just to make sure, and before I knew it I couldn't tell if I was actually experiencing tender pregnancy-related breasticles, or if they were sore from all the rubbing!