Here the whole time

I have several fond memories of my grandfather (apart from, you know, the $100 bill thing). One such memory is how, in his latter years, he used to wander around the grandparently house, picking up little knicknacks and other objet. He would stand there, a puzzled look on his face, squinting at the thing in his gnarled old hand. Then he would demand, loudly, of whoever who happened to be standing by, "Where the hell did this china shepherdess/wooden elephant/tiny vase come from?"

He would repeat the question- until my long suffering grandmother heard him, and until she replied,

"Dear, we've had that crystal rose/jade box/lamp shaped like a baboon for the last twenty years! It's been here the whole time".

And my grandfather would put it down, looking befuddled and slightly disgruntled, until he found the next thing an hour later and started the process again.

Worryingly, my father seemed for a time to be developing the same habit, but my mother kept clouting him over the head with the whatever- it- was, which happily seemed to knock the impulse out of him.

This Synarel sniffing business, my accompanying moods and my response remind a little bit of my grandfather's habit. You see, today I was sure that I was really quite down, quite fragile- dare I say, a bit vulnerable. I nearly burst into tears for no apparent reason on the way to a meeting. Later, I shot dark and violent mental arrows at the person talking too loudly on the phone across the room. And later, I had a pensive moment contemplating my dying bay tree (nothing I do for it seems to make it revive), thinking melancholy yet rather beautiful thoughts of the cycle of life, how all things fade in time.

Good God, I told myself at each point during these moments, pull yourself together! It's the drugs talking! The drugs! It's Day 7 of Synarel sniffing- by now it must be working its slow and pernicious effect.

But you know, I'm not so sure. If I am honest, I think I am usually a moody little thing, prone to odd flights of fancy and the occasional trembling of the spirit, even when not inhaling hormone altering medication twice a day. So I find myself picking these emotional moments, these cluttered mental knicknacks- holding them up to the light, and nodding in recognition.

Saying to myself, "Dear, it's been here the whole time."

Comments

[Jen]

I'm sorry you're beginning to feel the Jedi Mind Tricks of the drugs. Last week, I found myself on the verge of tears (for no reason, really) countless times. I think the drugs do perform a magnifying function on our emotions--too bad, though, that it all seems to catch us in the downcycle.

Best of luck to you, my dear--crossing my fingers that the mood improves!

[Menita]

It's the drugs. F---ers.
Keep picking up things and holding them to the light.

[Mellie]

I've been thinking similar thoughts myself lately - although I tend to blame my moodiness and tendency to cry on the more generic "depression over ttc" rather than the drugs specifically. I'm not sure I can even remember if I was so moody before this agony began. Regardless, though, if you feel the need to examine something now, why not?

[Julie]

Shit, I'm always like that! At least you can blame the drugs :)

[Cathy]

All I can say is that the crazy ride of A.R.T. --drugs or no--makes everything look and feel different. I'm wondering if once I get off I'll find I'm also different (permanently) from who I once was. Will I be saying, "Where the hell did this nutty woman come from?"? Hopefully, I won't add the part you mentioned about being shaped like a baboon, but I guess we'll see.

[InSpring]

How on earth can you write so beautifully under such conditions? You're awesome.

[Thalia]

Nah, I've always been moody. "The Mercurial XX" I was once labelled by a manager. My family used to make fun of my big sulks when I was a child: "Sulky Sue, Sulky Sue!" they'd chorus (you can imagine how well that worked). So my husband is v excited about me becoming even more moody...

[reprogirl]

I really like your analogy. I often have moments like that when I'm obsessively checking myself for "symptoms." (Not that I do that any more. Oh no. No more of that). I have come to the conclusion that, you know what, boobs pretty much always hurt or at least tingle a little bit, or they do if you think about it really hard. And you always feel a little bit nauseated if you inspect yourself very very carefully for signs of nausea, especially in the morning, because let's face it, mornings are just pukey.

Yup. It was there all the time.

[Soper]

Ha ha, you're a nut!

[Pamplemousse]

Definitely a smoked cashew!