Monday, January 28, 2008


Today's a big day. I have my suppression check to make sure I'm on track to start injections. My waking self doesn't feel nervous, but I had violent dreams last night. As in, I was being violent toward a former business associate. Who, of course, never did anything in real life to justify the kicking and stabbing s/he was getting from me in my dream. Scary!

You know, after my first acupuncture treatment last week, I had an exceptionally vivid story dream. It was easy for me to draw a connection between a thought trigger during the treatment to why my dream featured certain characters. Then last night I used my IVF meditation CD for the first time. There's one exercise that tells you to consider negative things you think/have thought about your fertility. Pretty easy, right? But then the voice goes ahead and lists a dozen or more nasty thoughts/terms of its own. In case you need any help. I didn't like that the generation of negativity wasn't left up to me. Hearing "the voice's" list was jarring (I'm not quite as harsh with the IF name-calling as the voice) and also ended up reminding me of entirely different negative life events because the terms didn't seem to apply to IF. At least not in my mind. "Hmmm, I guess I should add barren and empty and imcompetent and stupid to the list of things to call myself tonight. What a helpful, relaxing exercise."

Back to the dream part: I decided that the poor, innocent dream colleague (someone I can't even claim to "know") simply represented Work to me. Whether I was deep-down thinking about how it's tough to balance cycle demands with work schedules . . . or that I was guilty of having focused on work for too many years before TTC . . . or that I just really hated one of my jobs and wanted to hurt it . . . who knows?

The funny thing is, that both acts of dream violence — kicking and stabbing — are in fact the two violent acts I've committed. Ever. In Grade 4, I kicked a boy after warning him that if he called me Bucky one more time I'd have no choice but to kick him square in the shin. He thought I was bluffing. My word was good, though. So I let him have it. It really, really hurt (bad bruise, too), and I really, really, really regretted it. The boy and I were actually on very good terms otherwise. He forgave me (I was sick over it) and refrained from calling me Bucky again until we were all grown up.

On the stabbing incident: When I was 5, I shared a room with my sister. I noticed a pin in our shag carpeting and picked it up just as sis bent down to pick up something else (likely something I wasn't supposed to be breathing on). All I remember is that I was feeling VERY hurt and wronged and helpless about something or other . . . and that the patch of gleaming white bare skin between sis's pants and top — which presented itself right in front of my eyes and within my reach — was too big of a temptation to pass up. So, without much thought at all, I stuck that pin right into her backside.* I didn't feel a thing until she screamed. I've never quite gotten over that one, either. She didn't tell on me, btw, so she must have agreed that she'd had it coming. :)

*DH knows the story and gamely pointed out during the injection class that I'd already had some experience with IM shots!

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