Unburdening

I am pretty notorious for letting relatively small things send me over the edge.  Not in an angry or violent way, but in an I-can't-seem-to-stop-sobbing way.  And invariably, some version of the cliche "Don't cry over spilt milk" is offered up by a well-meaning loved one. 

Two things are at work in that phrase that leave me disconcerted.  1) The unpleasant or tragic thing has already occurred, so there is no use being upset about it.  Just clean up the mess as best you can and move on. 2) It's just a glass of milk.  It really isn't worth being upset about at all.  It is a small & insignificant setback.  Both of these arguments seem flimsy to me, and more than a little judgmental.  I suppose it is a sensible thing to recognize when a bad thing has officially & irrevocably happened & to realize that no amount of grief or regret can change an outcome that has already come to pass.  I suppose, also, that it is wise to keep one's misfortunes in perspective.  But I cannot help but think that this cliche misses the point of what it is to be human completely.   

I keep telling myself that today should have gone much more smoothly than it did.  I had an appointment with a nurse at Planned Parenthood to discuss birth control options.  This is not as straightforward an issue for me as it is for most people due to my connective tissue disorder.  The hormones in the pill cause an increase in ligament laxity, which is the last thing a hypermobile gal like myself needs.  I've tried a couple different kinds of pills with varying levels/ratios of hormones, & all have exacerbated my pain & joint instability.  Not to mention the number they did on  my emotional health.  Boy howdy, was I a weepy bucket of slop on those things! 

I'm not sure if I have a latex sensitivity or something, but condoms have always been uncomfortable & even painful for me.  Plus, they seem like an odd choice for someone in a committed relationship.  They seem putsy & annoying & not the most spontaneous or intimiate thing to bring to the bedroom.

So I went to the doctor to discuss IUDs--which sounds way to close to 'improvised explosive device' for something that is slated to be in my vagina--& the possible complications Ehlers-Danlos could pose to their safety and effectiveness.  I've read about the greater possiblity of "spontaneous expulsion" and "uterine perforation upon insertion", neither of which sound like a party I'm anxious to host.  I knew that I would have to educate the nurse about my condition today; that was a given.  I didn't know that she would treat my legitamite concerns as being silly and paranoid.  I wasn't looking for a conclusive, expert answer, but I was hoping for someone who would treat my concerns with respect and would do more than cursory research before deciding I should try the NuvaRing. 

I wish I had been able to summon the steadiness to articulate what I was feeling, but I just nodded without making eye contact and waited for the nurse to leave.  Then I left the prescription with the receptionist and walked quickly to my car.  I understand the nurse could not spend hours with me, studying every aspect of my condition & allaying all of my fears.  I know that it really just comes down to making a decision and hoping for the best.  And I know that the tears streaming down my face as I left the office were for more than one small frustration on an isolated day.  They were tears for years of pain without answers, for countless visits to rheumatologists, physical therapists, chiropractors, pain management doctors, orthopedists, and genetic specialists; for having lost a job due to this chronic condition, for trying so hard all of the time to simply function, to get through a day, for having had to bow out of so many fun activities due to pain, for feeling crazy at the lack of control I have over my own body & also guilty for being a burden, for needing so much help and understanding from everyone.  Perhaps most acutely, my tears were for truly wanting to have a baby some day, but doubting very much that my body could manage the strain of a pregnancy, and wondering, if I made it through the delivery....Would I be able to care for my baby? Would I be in too much pain to even hold or carry her? 

That initial cliche which rang so false led me to another cliche which always strikes me as tragically & universally apt: "The straw that broke the camel's back".  How many burdens are we able to carry at one time and how long can we manage?  I am infamous for losing my shit over what appears to be a dandelion spore landing on my shoulder.  But trust me, I've got a goddamn freigher strapped to my back.  I think we all do.  And I know it is high time I unpack mine and scrap the boulders.