The Chlomid Crazies, An Identity Crises

I am losing my GD mind.

I wish I was at the theater right now doing a lady and gender non-conforming improv jam right now but I am not. I’m home because my uterus decided to invite freaking Wolverine in to redecorate. And that’s putting it mildly.


Artist’s rendering of my insides right now    (Marvel property)


Some of you might remember me mentioning in my post about my decision to get breast reduction  that we’ve been having fertility “issues.” Since moving to Baltimore, I’ve been put on exciting medication Medoxyprogesterone and Chlomid. The side effects of Chlomid are affectionately known as the “chlomid crazies.” Both of these meds mess with your hormones (or fix ones that were already messed up? Its hard to keep track of what is well, on track) so much so that one second you’re texting “WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN” when your husband texts you “lol that’s funny” and the next you’re sobbing over a contestant’s loss on Chopped. Chopped! The show you watch when you’re high and you don’t have the wherewithal to scroll past C on Hulu.


It hits a little too close for comfort.


Granted it was a soup kitchen volunteers episode so it was a little more heart-stringy that usual by STILL. I do not appreciate being taken hostage by my own damn emotions.

Honestly, these meds to increase fertility or ovulation or whatever makes you SO bonkers. Like, ‘side with the dystopian baby-stealing villains from Handmaid’s Tale because yes, having babies is hard’ bonkers. Seriously OFFRED STOP BEING SO SELFISH WITH YOUR FERTILITY. So you have to be a slave and have sex with Joseph Fiennes. RELAX.


Just be happy you don’t have his brother.

So obviously, I’ve been seeing a therapist. I mentioned that settling into Baltimore has been a little…unsettling. My anxiety has been ramped up to 11 and it’s hard to see what’s “normal” and what’s “whack brain shit.” Those are my own quotes, not ones from my mental health professional.

In the past I’ve always seen older male therapists. So I’m used to that father-figure wisdomy, cardigan, bearded advice. This woman I’m seeing is maaaaybe a few years older than me. Her name is Britney (not really but you get the idea) and I love her, she’s brilliant – I think she’s very insightful but sometimes she’ll make an astute observation, I’ll pause to think about it, and she’ll quickly follow up with “But I could be like, totally wrong ya know? I don’t know everything – You know you best!” What? What are you doing? No Brit, tell me what to do! Believe in yourself!

She also lets me play with fidget toys in her office so sometimes it feels like I’m seeing a child psychologist as well.

( Side story: The only child psychologist I ever saw as a kid was when I was brought in to my brother’s session with his to see if maybe I could help with his anger issues. I don’t remember anything about it except that at one point, the psychologist told me that he and Elie were going to play in the other room and I had to stay seated in the waiting area. And there “was a phone I could use if I wanted.” I was like ‘cool, I’m 8 but yeah, I got some calls to make, some stocks to move around – don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine alone out here!” )

Anyways I was talking last week to her about how it’s hard to differentiate between my “real” thoughts and ones my OCD tries to sell me. How sometimes it feels like I’m at war with my own brain. She asked if I thought I was having an identity crisis. I had to answer quickly before she started to second guess her question to me. I think I am though. Last night I was reading on a website about how a symptom of PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome – which I have and is the culprit behind a lot of this shit) is intense and constant cravings for carbs – a hallmark of the disease. I had never heard that. The fact that my fierce love of bread and pasta could be a byproduct of a hormonal issue and not a FUNDAMENTAL PART OF MY PERSONALITY was incredibly shocking. Like honestly, eating rice is 85% of who I am. What else is being dictated to me by this imbalance? My love for gritty police procedurals? My complete inability to do a convincing British accent?! These are the real questions people.

I already know my OCD tried to convince me I was a lesbian against all evidence to the contrary. That was a terrifying two years. That’s a true thing that happened. I’m only just starting to be OK with talking about it. Maybe I’ll do a longer post on it one day.


Or puppies! I don’t do enough posts about puppies.


Basically, bodies are weird. Brains are weird. And I want to create MORE of them? MORE humans? Am I crazy?! (yes).  I think anyone who has kids is crazy. But whatever, as I told Doctor Britney when she asked me for qualities I like in myself, I am pretty fearless (or stupid – depends on how you look at it) and I’m willing to try anything once. So if this works, we’ll see how having a baby is and take it from there.

If all these medications don’t cause me to drown in my own dumb tears while watching Food Network first.

I told her I was organized and friendly as well.

“You’re also very funny…” she added.

“Finalllyyyyyy” I answered, “I wasn’t gonna say it myself, obviously!”

“You know yourself best.”



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