When the train fought the oil tanker, nobody won; everybody blew up

I learned something very important this week. When a woman's hormones lose their equilibrium, she will lose her s***. It's just that simple. Of course, the concept is simple. In reality, it looks more like a derailed train. One that derailed off a bridge into a massive highway that was carrying ten oil tankers.

Now that ain't pretty, or simple. In fact, it's pretty violent.

I learned this because I had to stop my hormonal birth control. I've been on it for three years, since William was born, and for whatever reason, now is when it decided to mess with me. I've been nauseated, exhausted, crabby, crampy, pore-clogged, and otherwise pregnant without the joy of actually being pregnant. Awesome, I know. So, since we're right in front of Lent (when there aren't supposed to be marital relations anyway), we decided to start Lent a little early and stop the Pill. After Lent? Yeah, we don't know. No idea.

So, this week has seen debilitating and yet utterly inexplicable depression, feverish stress, weird crying fits, gross cramping and bloating, and a general, overarching desire to hide in my bed and come out again sometime in 2016.

Remind me. Why is it, reproductively, that my choices are: get my husband snipped and ruin our fertility forever, or become a disciple of the Duggar family and have a kid every year until my uterus falls out from sheer exhaustion? Nothing against the Duggars, of course. They're sort of God-like in my opinion. But I'm pretty sure that if I'm going to subscribe to that particular mentality that I should, at minimum, at least enjoy being at home with kids all day, like, sometimes. I don't. Yeah, that's my ugly. I don't like that about myself, and I pray every day that I would not be that person. But as of today, I still am.

I am distressed in my spirit. Any of you who can speak to reproductive issues, please speak to me. What should I be? What should I want? What am I supposed to do with my body? Because I would love to just give in to what, between he and I, is apparently incredible fertility. I would love to just say, God gave us this wonderful capacity to reproduce. Let's be fruitful and multiply. But I am a mother who not only evidently carries defective, autism-prone DNA, but doesn't even love playing with kids. I don't like frolicking in the backyard, whether there's snow or sunshine. I don't like playing with dolls. Even as a kid, all I liked doing was making up stories. How does a person like that become a good, loving mother?

Okay, there's my cue to go do something else and forget about all this before I start crying in Starbucks. I told you I was an effing train wreck.