Too Much Time Alone

I’m having a bit of a rough day today. My Husband has been away a lot over the last few months – with the exception of the couple of weeks where we were dealing with the meth heads downstairs and he felt he needed to be here as much as possible to make sure I and the furballs were safe, he’s been working out of town during the week and is just home briefly on the weekends. Mostly I like having the house to myself, especially now that Tweedledee and Tweedledumb are gone and I feel safe at home alone – I get to clean and organize and sleep when I want, and I don’t have to be particularly quiet or worry about which lights I turn on when I get up at 4:15 in the morning to row, because there isn’t anyone else around who’s sleep i’m disturbing.

Unfortunately, since I finished my class last week, and I don’t have anything to focus on other than packing for the next few weeks (well that and work, rowing, my 200km erging challenge, christmas baking/prep, the social stuff that comes with the season, etc.) my brain has jumped into overdrive obsessing about all the fun little aspects of me – you know, those things that I generally manage to ignore or put aside when i’m busy with other things. I realize that a large part of why I stay as busy as I do is to quell that little voice in the back of my head that is constantly telling me i’m not good enough – so when I am less busy the volume of that voice increases. It’s also bad this week because i’m late.

And I know i’m not pregnant. Even if I hadn’t taken a test I would know i’m not pregnant. Granted, i’ve never been pregnant, but I am very familiar with how it feels NOT to be, and this is it. But despite that, I still have that little glimpse of hope that maybe this time i’m wrong… and each day i’m late that glimpse gets bigger, and I have a harder time reminding myself that it’s not a thing. And I have checked – I am definitely not pregnant. I would really like for my period to start so that that fucking little voice would shut up and leave me alone though.

But back to the keeping busy. I think sometimes I worry that I am actually a really shitty person, so I need to do as many good things as I can to make up for that. I sometimes feel like it’s all just one facade that is sometimes exhausting to maintain. But I can’t stop, or give up, or let one of the balls that I have in the air drop, because that’s proof that i’m actually a really shitty person and ultimately worthless. And I can’t let anyone know how hard i’m working to keep up with everything, or how worried I am, or how much other aspects of my self care might suffer because I am keeping all of those other things going, because then I’d be bragging, or some version of self absorbed, and that’s not ok either – the very fact that I know i’m doing things for others to make myself feel better causes the acts to be less altruistic and therefore ultimately selfish and therefore make me a shitty person.

And even as I write that I am aware that I sound crazy. I don’t even know what to call that thought process. It’s something between low self esteem, anxiety, hyperawareness, and narcissistic.

Ugh, I just want out of my head for a while. And for my period to start, so that at least that one little stupid glimmer of “Well, maybe…” can die for another month.


Drifting into Obscurity

I find myself less compelled to write because there is simply nothing new to say. I  am beginning to understand why there is so little online as far as discussion on what happens once it’s been accepted that you’re not going to get pregnant. The reality is that there isn’t anything more to add: I can’t get pregnant, I don’t plan to try any new or interesting treatments, and ultimately life, well, at least mine, and my Husbands’, goes on.

This is why it’s not an ongoing conversation. This is why I have found so few resources for support and information. Because there is nothing more to say. The grieving process will be ongoing, for me. In realizing I can’t have a baby, a part of me died, and it won’t be coming back. But ultimately, that’s it. I can find meaning, I can find joy, and as the black cloud of depression lifts, I can get back to being myself, with my normal level of energy and investment. I think that, sometime in the next few years, my Husband and I will look into some form of adoption. I favour the waiting children program – They’re children in foster care, frequently considered harder because they were not given up at birth, rather surrendered to child services because of some unfortunate circumstances. I think that adopting a child, or siblings, slightly older, up to age five – adopting a child (or two) who can choose us to at least a small extent, even as we choose them.

I think we will end up being a family. I think that I have learned a great deal about myself in going through infertility. I do not wish this experience on anyone.

As I gain perspective, maybe i’ll write a book. Or at least an honest discussion about what happens to those of us who don’t beat the odds, who don’t have a miracle baby after years of trying. I think that’s the story I find most frustrating – the constant assurances by strangers that they know that one person who couldn’t have a baby then one day, BOOM! Baby.  I hate those stories. I think anyone who wanted to have a baby and couldn’t hates those stories, because they highlight our failure. Because ultimately, however liberated I am, however much I know I am more than my uterus, more than my ability to procreate, this is my greatest failing. And the one I find hardest to forgive myself for.