The Sauce

20130804-172156.jpg
I stopped drinking this year on New Year’s Day 1 January 2013.

It’s not official or anything and it’s actually been over a year but there were a couple of alcohol fuelled meltdowns after each loss last year so I don’t count last year. Haven’t touched the stuff properly since New Year.

Do I miss it? Hell yes.

Why am I doing this? Is it because I won’t allow myself to live a little? No.

Is it because drinking has a negative affect on fertility? No (but I suppose that’s the upside of quitting).

It’s because I know as soon as I get back on it there’ll be no stopping me. I can’t just have one drink or a few sips. All the months of anxiety and anger and grief will come flooding out with every sip. It’s an exposure I can’t afford. I reckon I’m not far from reaching the bottom of pit-o-despair as it is. A little help from the sauce might just expedite me there on a direct train.

The relief and release from having a drink for me is fleeting. It feels good at the time but then my sadness reappears even stronger. I don’t want to feel worse right now, I want to feel better.

Currently, I can’t even attempt that little glass of vino with dinner for fear of needing to shotgun it directly from the bottle. Or becoming that belligerent dinner guest who tells all the fertile couples off for being so flippin perfect all the bloody time. Or better yet, turning into that emotional sobbing slobbering mess everyone is afraid of during a work function.

I can see it all play out in my head. The pats on the shoulder, the nervous uncomfortable glances exchanged between friends, their rushed excuses for a quick getaway. Perhaps you’ve had enough now, let’s get her home. I can feel the hangover from the hangover already. If I’ve already destroyed my kitchen during a sober meltdown what am I capable of during a trollied tantrum? I best not find out.

I wasn’t out getting shitfaced every night of the week but I sure did enjoy the taste of nice a glass of wine or a homemade cocktail. A few units a week, at social gatherings or a meal out, or just to unwind. But tasting anything remotely boozy now fills me with dread. It’s like my body’s warning me to tread lightly.

I am getting some grief for it. Why don’t you just chill out. Why don’t you just have a few drinks. It’ll loosen you up. Yes I think A drink (singular) might do that but I don’t have the control to stop myself and you probably won’t want to be around when I turn into the Shitfaced Incredible Hulk after my second.

On the upside, quitting has made me feel healthy! I’m contributing to my wellbeing and fertility! Or so I tell myself. I’m improving the quality of my eggs and all that other good stuff. And I guess if I can control any part of this process, this would be it.

I’m not saying I won’t try to have a glass of wine on holiday next week. Because I probably will. I’ll test the waters and see how it goes. At least if I turn into a miserable sobbing cow it will be with The Hubs and he is used to it!

Advertisements

Anger management needed

Today I’m just fucking angry.

Angry I’m I had to let that little egg go to waste this month. That I feel I don’t have many more eggs left. Angry that five babies were taken from me.

Angry that I’m in this fucking situation. That I still have no answers. That I have to wait for answers that might reveal nothing. Angry that no one in the medical profession seems to give a shit.

Angry that my friends are all knocked up without even trying. Angry that they are all out being happy and pregnant together while I wallow in misery. Angry that I’m spending fortunes on doctors and treatment and tests and supplements while that bitch two doors down can get knocked up three times while drinking and smoking during her pregnancies. And that she’s mean to her kids.

Angry that I’m suffering this in silence. That I have to quit my job because I’m too weak to withstand the barrage of cooing my colleague will receive from my colleagues and bosses. Angry that I cannot cope to watch her expanding belly and her due date so close to what was mine.

Angry at myself for not trying sooner. Angry that I’m not strong enough to endure this shit.

Now I’m going to go find something to break. Rant over.