I think yesterday was the lowest I've ever been. I thought this past month had been timed perfectly. I had been feeling great every day, no weird pms symptoms (although that's become the norm). Took a test, got a BFN. All I could think about was how I was failing as a person. Here's something that every female on the planet is designed to do, and that of them succeed at, but I can't for the life of me do. Hell, teenagers can get pregnant after a one-shot. But apparently me trying for 5 years isn't enough. I actually started planning out ways to end it all. That's when I knew I had a major problem, not just the weepies. I finally admitted, out loud, that I had a problem and needed professional help. And what was M's reaction to my admission? That apparently he wasn't doing his job as a husband to make me happy. Um, that's not what I said, or meant. But he seems to think that being depressed = being sad all the time. Last time I checked, depression comes in all shapes and forms and people can still have good days where they feel ok.
I did my research and thankfully my insurance covers mental health. I found a psychotherapist who specializes in infertility-related depression. Now I just need to find the courage to pick up the phone.