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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6 Comments »

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  1. ((((((HUGS))))))

    I don’t know what else to say except that I’m here, abiding with you. Always.

  2. I hesitate commenting knowing that I am likely one who brings you pain and I wish I had magic words to help you find your way through quickly. One thing I know for sure is that no matter what and no matter when you WILL be ok.

    I am just sorry.

  3. Abiding, too … knowing that you are strong, and that you will get through this (not like when you’ve run a marathon and you’re done, but more like an old injury that becomes simply a part of your stride). xo I wish I could make it easier.

  4. I’m really sorry that you’re feeling this way. It’s a sucky place to be. I’ve been somewhere similar. And now I’m worried I’m getting near that place again :( as we just got bad results. I’m glad you’re seeing your therapist, but you will have to do this on your own timescale. I reckon it’s perfectly fine to be sad and grieve. And it’s individual so don’t beat yourself up about it, don’t rush yourself. Big hugs. Best wishes.

  5. I’m sorry you’re struggling so much right now. I think the worst part is that little sliver of hope that still remains. That’s what was always so hard for me – still thinking there might be that small chance of a miracle and being angry with myself for hoping when I mostly felt hopeless. You WILL get to the other side. I heard a pregnancy announcement yesterday in person and I was actually happy for them. It stung just the tiniest bit, as it probably always will, but I was happy. It felt good. Hang in there.

  6. Thank you for checking in. I have been wondering how you were doing.

    I am sorry it is so hard. I wish I could make things better.
    Hugs.
    T.


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