Of snakes and their tails.

Not getting the job that I really wanted this week was disappointing, but I was okay with it because I felt like a) I’d put my best foot forward and b) it at least reassured me that there are jobs out there for me.  Today, however, I got some intel on the person who actually DID get the job, and it knocked me for a tailspin.

The person who got the job is ridiculously, mind-blowingly, pretty fucking amazingly qualified.  Like, what-the-hell-do-you-need-this-little-job-for kind of qualified.  And rather than think, “Well, at least I know I can compete in the big leagues,” or even “Well, at least I was defeated by a worthy opponent”, I immediately made a huge leap of flawed logic to a place of despair: “I’m screwed.  I will never get a worthwhile job when that is what the competition is like.”

I realize that this situation, this depression, is a circular thing.  I am unhappy at my job, I am stressed out.  My stress has caused me health problems, amongst them hormonal imbalances, which make me anxious, tired, and…stressed out.  That stress causes tension in my relationships, and destroys my creativity, which, in turn, makes me MORE worried and…stressed out.  I’m not in a strong position to be presenting myself to employers; I’m not even a good candidate for deciding what to make for breakfast.

I’m a snake eating its own tail. 

I have been hammering my head against this particular wall for over a year, and I have made no discernible progress.   I am more ground down than ever; my skin is so thin now, that the tears leak out against my will.

Every time I feel like a failure, every time I beat myself up about my lack of progress, is another bite of my tail.  I am getting close to the end; a few more, and I will be consumed. 

Or I could




It seems simple, but it’s not; it seems simple, and it is.  My serpentine jaw has been grimly clenched on this goal for so long that it is locked – how do you just stop working at what is so obviously the crux of all your problems?  But I will have a glass of wine, do a few muscle stretches, have a cathartic cry, and step back. 

I’m not giving up.  I’m just letting go.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that

Last summer, shortly after coming back from BlogHer, I hopped in my car in the pre-dawn and drove 4 hours to see a specialist.  My hope was that he could treat me with bio-identical hormone therapy, to get my hormones up to a respectable level where I might start ovulating again.

What he told me was crushingly disappointing: “I can treat you with fertility drugs to get you pregnant, or I can treat you with bio-identicals as though you were a 55 year old woman.”

I don’t want to be treated with fertility drugs.  I’m pretty adamant on that one.

But it’s taken me a long time to come to terms with being treated like a 55-year-old menopausal woman, too.  Last week, I finally got into the car at 5am to go back to the specialist.  The road wasn’t great; the weather was questionable.  The gas station that I usually stop at wasn’t open yet – no coffee is a bad sign, right?

And although none of those things were really true (I’ve driven uncaffeinated in worse weather), when I got to the edge of town, right before getting on the highway…I turned around and came back.  It didn’t feel right.

I reassured Alfred that the car and I were fine, crawled back into bed, and cried.

I guess I’m just not ready to give up hope of being “normal”.  I’m not ready to admit that the menopausal state I find myself in isn’t purely stress-related.

I am not ready to be treated as though I were a 55-year-old menopausal woman.