Alive.

January 28, 2013 at 5:56 pm | Posted in Crazy Talk (aka: Therapy), Heartbreak, Infertility, Mindful., Moving On. | 6 Comments

For those of you who have checked in, thanks.

I’m alive.

I’m not sure how many times I’ve opened up a new post, seen the emptiness on the screen, sat here and TRIED to write something, and then clicked away.

I wish I had something brilliant, wise, deep, emotional to say.

Truth is I’m struggling. I am up or down, with little middle ground.

I have days where everything feels easy and light and I am HAPPY I have no hope of another child left, because how could I want more than what I have? I have my son, my husband, and I get my baby time with my nephew and my best friend’s son and I get to give them back and go home to a blissful night of sleep. I go away for the weekend to the Bahamas with my husband, on his company’s dime, and we reconnect, and I rediscover the myriad reasons I married him in the first place. I run and have lost weight and feel amazing – the first time I’ve actually LIKED seeing myself in a mirror.

And then we get the question, at the company party. How many kids do you have? And then people are talking about how HARD it is to juggle schedules with so many kids, and how they gang up against their parents. And I want to shut them up with the bitter truth: we’re done with one, but not by choice. I want to stab them with our reality: all of the cycles, the Fail, the losses, the fact that as much as we WANT to bring another soul into this world, it isn’t going to happen.

I am still so angry. Angry at the universe, angry at Charlie, angry at myself, angry at everyone who gets to complete their family, angry with the people who have found peace in their family building, angry with my mother, who must have done SOMETHING when she was pregnant with me to create the deformity in my uterus. Angry at everyone and everything.

The difference now is that I can see clearly: this anger is useless. It’s protection, my shell. And it doesn’t help me anymore. My old habits, the ones who helped me cope over the years, aren’t working any more.

I hate being so angry, I hate myself even worse for lashing out at people. And every time I dismantle my Inner Critic, I’m left with nothing but grief. Sadness. Longing. Pain.

Only way through it is through it, my therapist keeps telling me. So I’m wading through it as best as I can: being kind to myself when I need it, being kind to my family when they need it more than me, running and working and hoping that I’ll eventually work my way out of this place.

We will likely never have another child.

I need to find peace.

I just don’t know how.

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