I have absolutely nothing to be depressed about because there are so many freaking good things in my life. But the fact of the matter is that I've been in the dumps. Can't write blogs without hating them. Can't say what I really want to. Don't really want to get out of bed.
In fact my bed calls to me the siren song of egyptian cotton and a soft sleep# setting of 35 which Sweetpea and I both go for. I want to go there pretty much 24-7 and with my feet slid under her for warmth and a book in my hand until I slip into oblivion. Because if I'm asleep I really don't have to think of much.
If I'm in oblivion I don't have to feel like a failure for not working more than I do, for not knowing when I should refuse a shipment because they turn my Nordictrack on end instead of laying it flat like instructed, for not going to exercise, for drinking my DietDrPepper with evil caffeine, for having endless cravings for mintchocolatechipicecreamwithasecondscoopofrockyroadfrombaskinrobins, for procrastinating my endless grading. . .
None of this should rationally be a reason for me to feel like I'm swimming in the failure bucket. The fact is that I'm approaching another situation where failure is reasonable and even probable. Thirty-seven percent of people in this situation at my clinic "are unsuccessful." Have you ever noticed that unsuccessful has a big FU in it? Yep, that's exactly what this would be.
While Fairyeggs might not be twenty-one, she's healthy, strong and fertile. She's had three children in the not too distant past. If I can't get knocked up with her eggs, then I have to wonder if it's more than just crappy eggs.
This has to be it. Just like fertility drugs and IVF cycles had to be it. This delusion of hope that I have is simply going to wreck me, again. I know this. I know this, and I still have hope inside of me.
I'd just rather go to bed than think about all of this.