Everything moves too damn slowly. The weather. My work. The HCG hormone levels in my blood. As much as I often wish that time stood still, that a particular joyful moment will last forever, I generally like the experience of movement. Not necessarily a linear and predictable progression towards a desired goal (though I wouldn’t mind some of that now), but change, surprises, things being in flux. I associate the experience of (physical and emotional) movement with growth, vitality and feeling alive. (I recently discovered that Daniel Stern, an American psychiatrist and a psychoanalytic theorist, wrote his last book, published posthumously, about forms of vitality. He defines vitality as an integration of the experiences of temporality, force, physical space, intentionality, and movement, assigning the latter a primary role).

My previous (and only) post was about the early loss of my first, hard-won, pregnancy. In the few months since then I’ve been somewhat productive in that area, though the product was not fully satisfactory. I recovered from the miscarriage relatively quickly. It was nice to rediscover my body as healthy and functional after enduring months of dispiriting news about my fertility. And like the first time, I became pregnant again, naturally, right before I was supposed to begin fertility treatments (maybe I should develop a new method for conceiving based on scaring your body into pregnancy. Or could my body have that known and prevalent problem of procrastination?)

To make a very long story short, my pregnancy turned out to be an ectopic pregnancy (outside the uterus), which can be dangerous. I had to take a medication, Methotrexate, which is a very low dose of chemotherapy. My body wasn’t too impressed with the first dose and I had to take a second one. Due the medication’s adverse impact on the body and especially on the liver I cannot do certain things for the next few months, including intense workouts, drinking alcohol, and the big one – trying to conceive. In addition, right now, until the HCG hormone levels go down to zero, I cannot engage in any physical activity, except for walking (yes, that includes sex). Fun times. I am being followed at least twice a week (which means waking up early to get to the clinic for blood tests) to monitor the hormone levels. And so far, my hormones are taking their time.

I sound pretty grumpy, don’t I?  I realize this is not the end of the world and I have not completely lost perspective. I am just feeling frustrated and exacerbated at the moment following another discouraging phone call from the clinic about my slow-to-go-down-hormones. If this slow progression continued, I might be one of the  rare cases who need a third dose, which means increased risk for adverse side-effects, or alternatively end up with a surgery. I am also anxious to resume some of my routine activities. I have been trying to not let the attempts to conceive take over everything, but it has been challenging to not feel like my entire life revolves around it. I am someone who exercises regularly and greatly enjoy running, alcohol, sex (not in that particular order). Most symbolic to me is that right now even the dancing I often enjoy at home (too rarely, in a club) is not recommended. Dancing, to me, epitomizes the idea of movement and vitality – a form of self-expression and creativity, experiencing the body’s vigor and force, occupying and moving through space. There is a quote by Nietzsche that I love about dancing that goes something like, we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. Amen.

But frustration can be good sometimes. It did mobilize me to write a second post. I haven’t written anything since the first post as I was struggling to find a voice that I was content with. Being a psychotherapist, I have to be mindful about self-disclosure, which poses limits on sharing personal information. That is, I need my identity as a blogger to remain anonymous so my therapy patients/clients could not identify me. I do not mean to say that I wish to remain unknown to the people with whom I work in psychotherapy. I do not think it is possible or helpful. As therapists, and people, we reveal information about ourselves unintentionally and unknowingly all the time whether we like it or not. In addition, when done carefully and thoughtfully, sharing with patients our thoughts and experience, especially as they pertain to the therapeutic process, can enrich the work tremendously. The popular, by now caricaturist, notion of the psychotherapist as a “blank slate” – the stoic, always silent, psychotherapist – is no longer an aspired ideal (this is true for psychoanalysts as well).  That been said, we, psychotherapists, do strive to be mindful about what we choose we share with patients so as not to burden them with unwanted information. And I’m pretty sure that what I write here goes beyond what many of my patients would choose to know. I realize it is not likely that one of my patients will come across my blog and yet when I write I feel the need to consider the personal information I include. Thus, a few times, I ended up not finishing or posting posts that I began to write. I had ideas for other posts that were more reflections and observations about cultural affairs, but these required an investment of time that I currently don’t have. I considered not identifying myself as a psychotherapist but it is so inherent to my identity and sense of self.  Thus, I began to wonder about my desire to maintain a blog and to question if there was a place and need for it in my life at this time. I thought that maybe it was better for now to go back to writing in my journal (which I haven’t done in a while), where I experience complete freedom. And yet, now in my frustration, I chose to write about it here. Maybe it is my way to surprise myself and create some movement.

Reflecting now on the transition from writing about my medical issues to my experience writing this blog, I realize that the common theme is the limitations I currently experience on self-expression– either through bodily pursuits or writing – and my need to push against them. I am thinking about my impatient anticipation for the arrival of spring. I love that time of the year when the days become increasingly longer, the weather is getting warmer, and the flowers begin to bloom. Especially in New York, with its cold and l o n g winter, it is impossible to not experience a sense of rejuvenation, renewal and self-expansion, to feel part of the awakening nature. I tend to get impatient in March when it starts to feel like spring should really be here by now and it is still cold as hell. So, there is nothing too new here. My special circumstances just exaggerate the experience of hibernation and I am ready and yearning for things to change. They do. Just too damn slowly.

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I began writing this post last Friday. Since then we switched to daylight saving time and we had two days of Spring. A taste of what’s to come…