I haven’t felt much like blogging lately. There’s something bittersweet about having your real-life people read about your life. It’s been such a saving grace in terms of helping people understand what it’s like to be me and walking this path. But there’s also an element of such intense vulnerability and just wanting the world to fuck off and mind their own business. How’s that for mood swing? Of course, I don’t really mean the fuck off part, but sometimes it just seems like crawling under a rock and disappearing would be easier. I’m not into half-assed truths, so I’m either all in, or I’m out. So I guess it was just easier to be “out” for awhile. I don’t even know if that makes any sense.
It’s been four months. And you know what’s fucked up, we still haven’t hit our due date. Sometimes it feels as though January was so incredibly long ago, and sometimes the pain is so vivid, it seems as though it was only yesterday. Mother’s Day was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I knew it would be hard, I just didn’t know it would be so hard. I got lovely emails and texts of support from friends, which helped. C wrote me a beautiful note and gave me a beautiful bracelet with Abigail Hope engraved on it. I just avoided the world and everyone in it that day.
I “came out” about our loss on Facebook (and went back to being on FB in a very modified sense — I have a lot of people’s updates blocked) on International Bereaved Mother’s Day (May 6). It just felt like the right thing to do. I wanted people to know about my pregnancy, about my daughter… about my broken heart.
My heart is broken. I’m so full of toxic energy right now. I don’t want to make it sound like every moment of every day is horrible, because it’s not. But for the most part, it’s an act. I’ve returned to the land of the living because I have to, but it’s a face I put on every day. I remember my first day back to work, as I put foundation on my face for the first time in over 2 months, I felt like I was painting on my face. Here’s the face of someone who goes to work. I remember my neighbour asking if I was back to work now, and commenting “good to hear it” when my response was yes. And I thought, that’s the marker, I must be all better if I’m back to work.
I’m going through the motions of living. I’m spending time with “safe” friends and doing things that are enjoyable, but my reality is never far from the surface. Getting back on the fertility train is hard. I understand why people want to forget about infertility after they reach their resolution. It brings up so much stuff to be back to this place. So many pieces in my insurmountable mountain.
I hate who I am when I’m in the thick of battling infertility. In those brief weeks of being pregnant, she backed down a bit. She began to let go of the hurt, the resentment, the jealousy just a little bit. I felt joy for the first time in so long. I was… content. And now that part of me is back and it’s so much more complicated. She’s so full of unhappiness and anger and uncharitable thoughts.
We went back for our consult with the new fertility clinic. Dr. H is wonderful — he’s such a nice man. And we want to work with this clinic very much. There is a much better feel here than the last one. They’ve come up a bit on their BMI stuff — I only have to lose 13 more pounds. It’s attainable, I can do that but it just seems so damned arbitrary. Really? 13 more pounds will make all the difference? I’ve lost 20lbs since we lost Abby. But it’s coming off very slowly… about a pound per week… which is healthy I suppose. But I can’t wait 13 more weeks to get the go-ahead. I also have to go for an anesthetic consult. More hoops. More hoops to do what everyone else in my world gets to do so easily. I hate not being in control of my own life. Science holds the answers to my problems — at arms length. I’m not poo-pooing the weight loss part, I understand that any weight I lose is only going to make things better… and I would do anything to bring home a living child. But it’s just so damn frustrating that I have to go through all this garbage just to have a child… a pregnancy with no promise, really. I feel like I’m drowning again. The waves lapping me under, my arms flailing about trying to regain control, my breath taken from me with every attempt to breathe. If I could just know that every thing would be okay, I could surrender. But I don’t know. I’m scared that this will be my life — sadness, contempt — always on the outside looking in. I need the universe to throw me a life preserver — something to wrap my hands around to keep me afloat before the waves win for good.
That’s why I haven’t blogged in awhile, because who the hell wants to fill their head with my sadness?