I sat in stunned silence, grappling with the words of my fertility specialist, Dr. Avery. “In my professional opinion, I don’t think you’ll be able to get pregnant again or stay pregnant. Have you considered seeing other specialists?” Wait, was this my fertility doctor breaking up with me? And what in the world did she just say?
On paper, Dr. Avery had stellar credentials — impressive success rates and a well-respected reputation. After months of anticipation, I was convinced she would have the answers I so desperately needed. Instead, she dismissed my severe endometriosis and told me my miscarriages were “too early to matter.” But they mattered to me. They mattered a lot.
As I walked back to my car, I felt like I was in a daze. I sobbed uncontrollably, the kind of tears that come with snorts and gulps, and I could feel snot dripping down my face. It felt like those tears would never stop. Soon, anger and bitterness crept in, quickly followed by a deep sadness.
In the months that followed, I was inconsolable. No one understood the emotional tsunami I was experiencing. I was bombarded with well-meaning yet infuriating platitudes like “just relax” or “everything happens for a reason.” Relaxing wouldn’t fix my endometriosis, and if there was a plan, it certainly didn’t involve me being miserable. I felt anguish and fear grip my soul. Breathing hurt. Sometimes, I thought I was having a heart attack. I was drowning in vivid nightmares and crippling insomnia. Desperate to regain a sense of normalcy, I visited my primary care doctor, who diagnosed me with severe panic attacks and anxiety. She prescribed a cocktail of medications, but they worked about as well as placebos.
I felt like an utter failure. I mean, I’m a mammal, right? Aren’t mammals supposed to reproduce? I couldn’t even control my emotions, let alone my body. I convinced myself I was losing at this thing called “life.” Though I never considered suicide, I felt like I was already dying inside. Anxiety and depression can extinguish the light in your heart — killing faith, hope, and dreams. The depression made me apathetic toward life, yet anxiety wouldn’t let me forget the chaos surrounding me. I had to quit my job because I could no longer function. Panic attacks struck unpredictably, and I couldn’t identify the triggers.
In the midst of all this darkness, I stumbled upon an anxiety clinic. I won’t pretend I went willingly. My breakdown had been so severe that I had no choice. I don’t even remember much of what happened; it was as if a different version of me had taken over.
My husband, Jacob, tried to break through my wall of sorrow, confronting me alongside some family members. I felt betrayed. He wouldn’t go to therapy with me, even after I had begged him countless times! Yet here he was, treating me like I was the one with the problem. I was furious! Everyone seemed to think I had no reason to be upset, but they were wrong. I had every right to my feelings, and nobody should dismiss what I was going through.
I vaguely recall a lot of yelling, and then I ran to my room to escape the “traitors” in my family. In my haste, I decided to sneak out a window — a terrible idea that resulted in a nasty cut on my eyebrow requiring stitches. Lesson learned: windows are higher than they appear; I am not a cat; and that was a dumb move.
At the ER, I argued with a nurse who wrongfully accused me of being suicidal and drunk. (I wasn’t drunk, but I jokingly suggested I could use a glass of red wine after that awful night.) In my frustration, I may have said something along the lines of, “Listen, I’m not going through fertility treatments just to drown my sorrows in booze!” (I’m pretty sure that comment landed me in “lock up.”) I told her the stitches on my eye were terrible and would probably leave a hideous scar. (Spoiler: it didn’t.) I cried, big heaving sobs, feeling utterly alone and unwanted. The bitterness toward my family was suffocating. In that moment, I thought I was dying from a broken heart. Rock bottom.
Initially, at the clinic, I felt ashamed and horrified at my behavior. But then a psychologist helped me realize that I was grappling not with insanity, but with immense grief along with my anxiety and depression. That was the first time in a long time my feelings made sense!
Grief isn’t rational, and it can lead to poor decision-making. We experience a whirlwind of emotions — anger, sadness, denial, and hopefully, acceptance that we deserve happiness. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve; it’s a personal journey. Similarly, anxiety, depression, and panic attacks affect us all differently. There’s no magic cure.
Infertility is a form of grief. With each cycle that doesn’t result in a pregnancy, a piece of your soul feels lost. Millions of women are battling infertility right now. They mourn when their periods start, feel isolated, and drown in Google searches for solutions. After years of trying to conceive, many seek help from fertility specialists, yet success is never guaranteed.
Infertility is a powerful foe. It feels cruel and brutal. Knowing your body has let you down is a massive blow, especially when many of us have dreamed of motherhood since we were little girls playing with dolls. It’s far more soul-crushing than being passed over for a promotion or realizing your favorite coffee shop is out of soy milk. It’s overwhelming, and the intense depression and anxiety can suffocate you before you even realize it. No doctor can truly prepare you for that horror.
When I left the anxiety clinic, I felt empowered rather than defeated. If I couldn’t conceive, I was mentally ready to explore other paths to parenthood. I rediscovered myself — a stronger version, with a newfound appreciation for life. I initially thought admitting I needed help made me weak, but in reality, it was a sign of strength. With the support I received, I felt loved and understood again. I learned vital tools to rebuild my life.
Recovering from a mental breakdown means mending relationships that may have suffered. My therapist warned me this wouldn’t be easy; people often can’t fully understand what we’re going through. Some family members misinterpreted my struggles as personal attacks, and one relative still won’t speak to me six years later, despite my apologies. Most, however, genuinely cared about my well-being.
Though I sometimes feel resentment toward Jacob, I remind myself that he was grieving too. Fear held him back from joining me in therapy, but I should have gone anyway. Infertility built a wall between us, as it does many couples. The sadness and stress can deflate your spirit. Now, we’ve emerged stronger than ever from this battle.
My journey through infertility was the most painful chapter of my life, and it still stings. Time might heal wounds, but it doesn’t erase the memories.
I no longer feel ashamed of my meltdown. I’m a fiercely strong woman who reached her breaking point. This is ME, and if you can’t accept me — quirks and all — then I don’t need you in my life! Society often attaches a stigma to anxiety and depression, but these are legitimate illnesses. Many suffer in silence to avoid judgment. I was one of them: I knew I wasn’t myself but didn’t realize the extent of it.
There’s no medal for enduring this solitary agony. Don’t be the near-hysterical person with a bleeding eyebrow at the ER who stubbornly refuses to ask for help. If you have a meltdown, know you’re not alone! Hold your head high. You’re not failing; you’re simply navigating through the tough process of life. I can’t claim to be free from anxiety; it simmers just below the surface, waiting to rear its ugly head. However, I’ve learned how to cope and manage it, and I’ll never allow it to overwhelm me again.
While that insensitive fertility doctor may have treated me like just another case number, I knew she was wrong to dismiss my body. Armed with my newfound confidence, I refused to let her opinion defeat me. I found a compassionate and optimistic doctor who prayed for my success. I began acupuncture alongside a new fertility regimen, and within a year, I was overjoyed to find out I was pregnant with my first daughter.
I learned to fight back when life throws lemons like infertility your way. Someday, somehow, things will look brighter. Keep pushing forward. You are not weak. You are not forgotten. You are not unloved. Repeat after me: I am a survivor. I am strong. Take that, anxiety! Take that, depression! Take that, infertility! Demand your happiness in this moment and fight for peace. Refuse to hide in shame. You have battled. You can rebuild. That makes you incredibly brave.
Summary
This article recounts the painful journey of overcoming infertility and mental health struggles. The author shares their experience with a dismissive fertility specialist, the emotional toll of infertility, and the eventual path to recovery through therapy and support. It emphasizes the strength found in vulnerability and the importance of seeking help.