I’ll explain the giraffe later.
You know why I want to cry? In fact, that’s a moot question because I am crying, and I cried a lot yesterday too.
Because I’m so sad and angry about how the last 2.5 years have turned out.
I am wallowing in a great big pool of feeling sorry for myself at the moment, and you know what?
The future perfect me, the one that I always think of when I am at my lowest point, the one who has all her shit together no matter what’s going on in her life, she tells me that it’s ok. And so it is. It’s completely okay to cry your heart out for losing so many pregnancies. It’s completely okay to feel cheated, angry, bitter, exhausted and numb from the relentless pain. It’s completely okay to cry and cry and cry for catching a too-small-to-be-born baby in the palm of your hand in the midst of a bloody miscarriage.
I had hopes this month, with all the cramps and twinges, it felt hopeful.
But yesterday morning, it all came to a stop. And total radio silence has resumed.
Having been pregnant 10 times (5 of those didn’t even make 72 hours after implantation), I pretty much know that total silence from my uterus means NO PREGNANCY.
And I’ve walked around with such a heavy heart for the last 24 hours.
Because I really know, deep down, that it’s time to stop this. And I knew that at the start of this month, because to be honest, our trying consisted of two very perfunctory BDs and I was relieved when it was done.
So I’m grieving.
Grieving for the unfairness of everything I’ve been through. For the lost dream. For every time I’ve imagined five of us sat around the dinner table. For the fact that despite trying hard, I couldn’t make it happen. I failed.
Me – with my grammar school education and two degrees, my problem solving skills and my excellent grasp of english and maths, with my ability to dig deep and find reserves even when they aren’t there, to manage 36 hours of hard labour with no pain relief, to smile at the midwife when she sewed me up, to keep it together in the face of my mother’s attempted suicide, to cycle 1800km across Europe, to bunji jump off of Victoria Falls in Africa, to win £4000 back in bank charges for my little brother (don’t even ask), and to raise two boys, 21 months apart without a single piece of support or help from anyone other than my husband. Capable me – the person I believed could do anything I put my mind to, no matter what.
I failed to have a third baby.
This hurts me. As much as the loss of my third child does. It’s a broken dream AND a failure on my part.
So I am grieving.
But I don’t have trying in me any more.
I can’t stick to a healthy diet because the anger just keeps bubbling up and sabotaging my efforts – the anger that says other people can eat shit, and drink, and smoke, and still get pregnant, so what’s the deal?
I’m done with trying, and I think, deep down, I can accept that.
I’m going to take a break from this blog, and from all things pregnancy and baby.
I will pop back in a few months (maybe for my 40th birthday in December!) and let you know how I’m doing.
But for now, I need to learn how to be me without all of this.
So, just to reassure you that I am in fact, alright, this is what the next few months, getting back on my feet, are going to be like for me:
But hopefully next time we speak I will be more like this:
Love and light to you all.