Infertility schizophrenia: glass half flempty?

You might have noticed, (it was certainly not lost on me, if only in hindsight), that my announcement about moving forward to IVF was unceremoniously deposited at the end of a blathering post touching on innocuous topics like work and the weather. I suppose there is some deeper psychological insight to be had in this observation, about the state of my continued denial or my fear of moving forward, or...whatever. Make of it what you will.

This post is prompted by a post yesterday from Sarah at Fallopian Groove (who it turns out, while I was writing the draft of this post, was having a Very Big Day Indeed - as well as fuelling the fires of what I previously thought were you-could-mistake-implantation-bleeding-for-a-period! pure urban legend - so drop by and give her a little love and encouragement). Anyway, her description of the 'infertility set' (card carrying member here!) - one so apt that I'm tempted to see it as a kind of manifesto - touched on the need for us to embrace being glass-half-empty kind of people.

My trouble is, this whole experience has made me, for one, more than a little glass/liquid-ratio confused. I'm schizophrenic on this topic.

Because I need, on some primeval and self-protective level, to see the glass as half empty as each two week wait hurtles towards its now-inevitable conclusion month after month. This in order to keep my sanity and sense of self-worth intact, to keep from being broken right in half in such a way that no amount of bandaids of chocolate or curling up under a duvet would sooth. I need to embrace the whole this-won't-be-so-bad-your-life-is-great-either-way sense of the inevitable. 

But by the same token, I need, as I am dragged towards another fertile window of super sexy jungle time each month, to see the glass as half-full, to want to keep bothering at all. Not with the sex itself - which obviously we'd have periodically anyway - but with the vitamins and the hurry up I'm ovulating NOW sexiness and the treating my body like a goddess temple that I still believe might be inhabited by a growing baby one day. To keep hoping in such a way that is more than just a painful reminder of what isn't, and allowing for a belief in what could be.   

These two halves of me are in an eternal manichean struggle:

From this could almost certainly be The Month! I can just feel it somehow!

To there is no possible way that this will ever happen for me! Who am I kidding?! 

My problem is that by nature, pre-utterly hopeless less-than-fruitful baby-making attempts, I have never been by nature either a pessimist or very realistic. (I am the sort of girl who booked a one way flight to Turkey one summer in university with no plan, no language skills, only what I could carry in my backpack, and £200 in my bank account; just because I thought it'd be fun to see where it took me, and I just knew I could rely on the kindness of strangers to help guide me. Turns out on both those counts, and on that occasion, I was right. But I digress.)

I think I probably used to be one of those annoying anything-can-happen-if you-will-good-vibrations-towards-you perky people. And although for the most part I'd like to punch that version of Sadie in the face more often than not nowadays, I guess I still need her reckless, bitterness-free, dreamy hopefulness to hang around on the margins at times.

Take this past cycle for example. I started spotting at about 10 days post-ovulation, right around the time I took my customarily too-early-to-tell pregnancy test intended to desensitize me to the inevitable disappointment but just-early-enough to leave room for hope (welcome, once again, to my neurotic ttc brain). Even though this hormonal weirdness was also a part of last month's unsuccessful cycle (and appears to have become a regular thing), coupled with the, er...negative pregnancy test, the annoying, dreamy glass-half-full Sadie beat down my bitterness for a day and forced me to really question my more jaded self. What if this might was the fabled implantation bleeding? (Hey, just because it's an urban legend doesn't mean I don't fervently believe in it at times; just like say, the Sasquatch, or a new Star Trek: TNG spin-off). I briefly wondered if I might not, in fact, be with child.

And yes, I can understand why you'd want to punch that Sadie in the face, but you know what? I also kind of liked the floaty feeling that carried me through that one delusional day, because even if it was deluded I managed genuine joy for those hours, and that fact did nothing to exacerbate what would in any case have been the same feeling of crushing failure and time-is-running-out anxiety that I feel every month.

So it's a dilemma; one that I know does not end, for those of us who have struggled so to get there - and maybe struggled with staying that way - once a pregnancy finally occurs. I'm interested to to know how other people cope. Or am I the only one who suffers from this particular brand of schizophrenia?

What about you bloggy friends? How do you manage the delicate balance of hope versus realism? Have you changed in your outlook over time?

Never a clear winner. Source.