When a sock is enough to make you crazy, you know you’re on the wrong drug. Clomid is a miracle worker for some people: unfortunately I am not one of them. Instead of it working wonders, it made me a fucking nut job.
I will get back to being crazy in a second. But first, I will let you know that while on this treatment plan, my mom passed away. (You can read about how special she was to me here.) It was certainly the worst year of my life, which could have also impacted my mental health.
I also found out through the genetic testing that I am a carrier for Cystic Fibrosis. Luckily, Jimmy is not. It was certainly an agonizing wait to figure that out.
Back to clomid. God, I have never felt so alone. I alienated myself from everyone and everything. I didn’t like myself, I didn’t like my thoughts, and I didn’t like what it was doing to my relationships. But, this is what was prescribed. So that’s what you have to do, right?
That’s how I thought about it until the sock. Jimmy hates this story, but I think it’s important for people to understand how different this drug made me. Lucky for me, our doctor had warned us both that some people have extreme effects. If not, I don’t know how he could have stayed with me.
Like I said, I felt very alone. I was the one taking the drug. I was the one taking my temperature every morning, before my feet hit the ground, at the exact same time, everyday. I was the one peeing on ovulation sticks every morning. Obviously, Jimmy couldn’t do any of these things for me. But I still thought: “What the fuck. He isn’t doing ANYTHING to contribute!” Aside from having sex with me, on demand. Which even now, I don’t know how he did it considering how I treated the world.
Then one day, he had the NERVE to leave a sock. In the living room. On the FLOOR. Of all places. It was clear to me during that time that he no longer cared about me. Like, not even a little bit. It was obvious that he intentionally left his sock there just to hurt me. HOW COULD HE?! I couldn’t even comprehend how he could do this to me. I fell to my knees and sobbed. Sobbed that our marriage was basically over; that we would never be able to come back from something like this. I mean, really, how could we? How could he? Why was the world so wrong.
I confronted him about the sock, and the undeniable end of our marriage. I remember seeing confusion. Shock. Sadness. Emotion in his eyes that I wasn’t expecting. He obviously didn’t care about me, so why did it seem like he cared now? His reply? “This isn’t you. This is the drug talking. It’s ok. It’s just a sock.” JUST A SOCK? I saw red. I had to take myself out of the situation so that I wouldn’t hit him. HOW COULD HE?!?
As I laid in bed, I cried out for my mom. Loudly; as if there was an audience. To make him see how he had wronged me. I prayed to God to help put my marriage back together and help us through this dark time. And, I kept replaying his words over and over. This isn’t you. The more I said it to myself, the more I appreciated him saying it. This wasn’t me. I’m a laid back person, so who was this person who cared about the sock? I do not keep this meticulous house in which a sock would make or break hours of hard work a day. It really was “just a sock“. The realization was confusing to me. If I knew it was “just a sock” now, why hadn’t I realized it when it happened? How many other “sock” moments had I had along the way? How many people had I unintentionally hurt with my piss poor attitude and self-loathing? It was too much to handle.
So, we decided it was our last month with clomid. We said goodbye, and never looked back. I needed to emotionally heal, and get out of my pity-party funk, so we decided to take a different approach. Which leads me to our next chapter: Infertility-Our Struggle Part X: A Non-Western Approach.