The truth is that I’m reaching.
The truth is that I’m lost.
The truth is that I’m drowning.
And the truth is that I don’t want to admit any of that here – for fear of the armchair psychologists out there in the internet ether who may just take it upon themselves to determine that what I am feeling is not normal.
Or worse still – to doll out their infinite wisdom as though they are experts in the fields of psychology, and infertility, and the inner workings of my brain.
I don’t want the well intentioned advice that people have to give. The advice that sounds like them telling me that what I’m feeling isn’t right. Or understandable. Or acceptable. Or natural.
I don’t need to hear that I should put my trust in God.
Or that I need to let it all go.
Or that it’s important for me to focus on the things I can control, rather than on those I can’t.
I know all of that. Logically, and innately. I know what I should be doing. How I should be coping.
But the truth is, all the should's in the world can't change what is.
The hurt in my soul that I can't simply will away.
No matter how hard I try to focus on the positive, or let go and let God; I can’t change the fact that my heart is aching.
And I don’t want to hear that there is something wrong with that.
So the truth is, I’ve been hiding. Here. In the one place I always told myself I would never hide. I’ve been doing just that. Pretending that all is well. That I’m going through my days with a genuine smile on my face. That I’m strong and capable and happy. That I’m allowing laughter to wipe away any lingering tears.
The truth is, that isn’t necessarily true.
Yes, I am getting up every day and functioning like a champ. I am accomplishing all my tasks at work, and socializing with friends after hours. I let Mrs. King make me the most incredible dinner on Monday night as we sat in front of the TV and gossiped about all the drama on the The Bachelor. I’m putting on my dancing shoes tomorrow night and heading out on the town with Loo. I’m going out to dinner with people I love, and making the effort to call friends I somehow managed to let fade into the background last year.
I am reaching out. Connecting. Doing everything in my power to continue moving, rather than crawling under the covers and hiding out from the world.
But the truth is, I’m doing all of that because right now – I’m afraid of being left alone with my thoughts.
I feel tormented lately. Tormented by all the things I can’t control. All the dreams that seem to have been lost. All the hurt piling up on top of me until I feel like I can't move under its weight.
And the truth is – I don’t know how to pull myself out of this ache.
I listen to the stories of encouragement that others give me. The ones they think will bring me hope. About women who achieved pregnancies against all odds. Miracle babies born under impossible circumstances.
I listen, and nod, and acknowledge, but the truth is – I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be given false hope, or told that my time will come. I don’t want to be placated, or reminded of how oblivious I am to what the future may hold. And I don’t want to hear about the ways in which the lives of others have been blessed, when at my very core I can’t help but feel like mine never will be.
And the truth is – I am scared of these thoughts. Of the suffocation they inflict upon me. Of the things they say about me. My character. My faith. And the strength I once used to believe I possessed.
The truth is, I am hiding. From both you, and myself. Because I don’t like who I see when I look in the mirror anymore. I don’t like who I’ve become. I don’t like who I am left with.
I used to be strong. Confident. Determined. Whole.
And now, I am broken. Beaten. Struggling. Lost.
And the truth is – I don’t know how to recover.
I was sitting in a room the other day when a man I hardly know entered and began talking to the two other women with me about his wife who is pregnant with baby number 3. He was discussing how much he knew she wanted a girl, and how he truly hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed if this baby turned out to be a boy. Then he revealed that when they found out it would be a girl, he faced a similar disappointment he had feared for her himself. And he immediately decided they would have to try for baby number 4 as soon as the time felt right. Because he really did want another little boy.
Baby number 3 isn’t even here yet, but baby number 4 is already in the plans.
And the truth is – I sat there horrified. Unsure of what to say, or how to react. Feeling only incredibly left out, unsure, and incapable. Wondering if I would always feel this way. If for the rest of my life, anytime the subject of procreation was broached in front of me, I would feel like I was suddenly thrust into a conversation where I did not belong. Where I had no place. Where nature had made it certain I would have nothing to add.
My heart broke into 1000 little pieces, and I sat there wondering how to make the conversation end. Sure only of one thing – that no one else was responsible for my feelings. That the people around me engaging in talks of babies and parenthood weren’t trying to exclude me. That they shouldn’t be punished or made to feel bad, simply because I was seething with jealousy and hurt.
I knew only that this was my fault and no one else’s. That I was the one who didn’t belong. The one who couldn’t fit in. The outcast. The failure.
And the truth is, these are thoughts and feelings I am experiencing every single day now. A constant barrage of heartache that I don’t know how to quell.
Even though I feel like I should be over this by now. Even though I feel like I should be focused on the future. On a pain free existence. On all the gifts which I have been given.
Because at the deepest level of cognition, I truly do recognize all the ways in which I have been blessed.
But instead, I have become painfully entrenched in the past. In the details of everything I cannot control. Everything that feels as though it has been taken away.
The truth is that I am hurting.
And no matter how many Band-Aids I put over my heart, I don’t feel like it’s healing at all.
I am doing everything I should. Talking with Dr. Headshrink. With friends. With those who love me. I am relying on acupuncture, and herbs, and sunshine. I am trying. Striving. Surviving.
And even here, I have been attempting to pretend that all is well. That my head is not plagued with the dark thoughts that seem to have invaded it lately.
But the truth is, something happened that made me feel guilty for hiding behind a happy face. I heard about a woman who has walked this road, and when she reached what she thought was the end; she made the decision to give up. To throw it all away. To turn her back on life.
And as sad as that story made me, the truth is that as I heard the details all I could think was “I get it.”
I get it.
The drugs from trying to conceive, and the mess of hormones, and the heartbreak - it can wear you down. It can break you. And it can make you feel completely disconnected from everything and everyone. Hearing people tell you it isn't over only makes you more frustrated. Because you feel like they don't know. No matter what they've experienced themselves, you feel like they couldn't possibly understand. You feel like it is never going to happen for you, and that finality starts to suffocate you.
The truth is that I am safe. I am not on the edge, or facing thoughts of wanting to end it all. My life is still a life I want to live, and I don’t foresee that changing at any point in the future.
But I get it. I can see how it could happen.
I don’t think I ever really understood before how truly crippling infertility could be. I always had sympathy. Always felt the ache for those going through something I could never imagine experiencing. But I don’t think I ever had any idea how painful it really was.
How isolating.
Heartbreaking.
Life changing.
And I’m not sure that anything is gained by my pretending to be healed here. Pretending that I’m fine. That my heart isn’t split in two. That I’m over it all – just like that.
Because I’m not. And I don’t think most people would be. And I think there is something to be said for how lonely this grief can be. How much more painful it becomes when you feel like there are those who believe you shouldn’t feel what you feel.
And so the truth is that I realized, I need to tell the truth.
And the truth is, I am struggling.
I think that last year, after every fall, there were distractions. Next steps. Moves that still needed to be taken. The devastation of that second surgery and the news that came as a result led to the drive towards IVF. The heartbreak of that first failed cycle only gave way to preparation for the second. And the shock of that second failed cycle was abruptly ignored in a drive towards finding relief from the pain.
The truth is that here I am now, out of pain and endo free, finally having to face the events of the last year. Forced to acknowledge that there is no baby in my womb, and there likely never will be. And there are no distractions now. No next steps. No options to throw myself into. Nothing more to do besides throw in the towel, and deal.
For the first time, I think I am having to face the truth.
And it’s been more painful than I had anticipated.
More jarring.
Heart wrenching.
And difficult to wade through.
The truth is that I haven't been myself.
That I don't even know how to find my way back to the girl I used to be.
The truth is that I cry often.
That my heart is breaking.
That I want the life that feels as though it has been ripped away.
The truth is that I am angry.
And hurting.
And sad.
The truth is - everything right now feels more than a little messed up.
And it is incredibly scary to admit that here. To admit for all the world to see how damaged I have actually been feeling. How lost, and broken, and unsure I've been.
But the truth is, I am trying.
I am in a dark place.
But I’ve been in darker.
And I’ve always found my way out before.
I am doing whatever it takes to climb out from this hole.
I don't need a hand, because there is no one who can do this but me.
No words that can be said which will fix this wound.
But the truth is - I will make it.
I will be fine.
I will survive.
And one day, I will smile again and it won't be an act.
One day, I will remember what happy feels like.
The truth is, this has all just been a season.
A painful, enduring, difficult season.
But seasons always pass.
And the darkest of seasons always lead into something bright.
Something new.
Something beautiful.
The truth is that I am not as OK as I would like to be.
But that I know I will be.
That healing is coming. And the road has been paved ahead.
It’s just going to take a little time.
And understanding.
A little perseverance.
And probably a little more truth.
ADSPACE
