Last night I laid in bed panicky and itchy. My heart and mind were running a marathon around worry and fear. What does 31 hold? More heartache and anguish? I know this is a tremendously negative thought, but today, it is all I can focus on.
This morning, I can’t stop crying. I yelled at Mr. Husband. I yelled at the cats (granted, one pooped in the tub yesterday, but they are my cats. I should not yell at them). I yelled at myself.
I’m angry at myself for letting things get this way. I’m angry that I waited so long to try for my baby. I’m angry that I can’t give Mr. Husband what he wants and deserves. I’m angry that my pants still don’t fit and that my new pants are tight. I’m angry that I am still in a job that leaves me bored and empty.
I’m angry that the only people I can say these things to are you.
Don’t take that the wrong way, dear readers. I love each and every one of you. I love that we get to share our journey with one another and I love that when we falter, someone is always there, fingers poised above a keyboard, to bail us out.
I’m angry that we can only find this support here – in a virtual world of acronyms and emoticons. I’m angry that we can’t sit down for supper together or gather for a craft night. I’m angry that when a miscarriage happens, all I can do is type *big hugs.* I’m angry that I’m crying on my birthday and there is no one to apply a real hug and stop the tears.
I’m angry that when I do talk to real people about infertility I play the “happy and together lady.” Why do I do that? Because I’m proud. I don’t want the fertiles to know how much it hurts. I want them to think I am tough. I am terrified of their pity glances if I continue to fail.
I’m angry that I have no way to end this post. It’s my birthday and I feel sad, angry and stuck in life and a blog entry.