So many of us struggle with infertility, yet we do so in the shadows. We endure unspoken struggles punctuated by eerily white negative pregnancy tests.
The heartbreak of another month gone by, grieving over something so natural, something so normal - yet something we cannot do.
Infertility divides us from the rest of the world.
This month, The Band, we're inviting all of you who have struggled with infertility and miscarriage to bring your stories to the light.
It's time to shine the spotlight on infertility and destroy the shadows we live in.
I'm just going to say it: I know it sounds disgusting, hideous, even.
But it's my truth.
Here goes nothing:
Sometimes, I hate hearing other women sharing their infertility struggles.
I hate myself for feeling that way - I truly do feel the heart-pain of these women.
I have a sister who struggled to conceive. But, you see, she already had a child. And I hate that I qualify her struggle that way. I am disgusted with myself for ever having let that thought into my mind.
I'm still jealous of moms, sometimes. I don't often feel that jealousy anymore - at least not frequently - but sometimes I can't help it.
I'm not your standard face of infertility.
I simply can't have children. Due to long-term medical issues stemming from my birth, I ended up having a complete hysterectomy when I was only 24.
Before meeting that special someone I thought I'd like to start a family with. Before having even one child. I know I'm not the youngest to have this happen, nor is this the worst story you might hear of. But it's my situation; my truth.
I quit my job about six months after my surgery. See, I worked in a hospital. On the Labor and Delivery unit.
I'm thrilled to share the joy of a friend's pregnancy. I will listen with sympathy to another's struggle to get pregnant. Sometimes I get angry all over again; I will NEVER have the opportunity to even try.
I hate that.
I hate that sometimes, I wallow in the "It's JUST NOT FAIR!" pity party. I'm not like that. Usually. I can go months, years even... And then, boom. The weight of this loss smashes me into the ground all over again.
I've never found that special someone.
I held myself back from dating, you know, "after." I mean, what guy would want damaged goods who couldn't provide offspring? Continuing the family line and all that.
A few years after the surgery, the ONE SINGLE TIME I opened up to a man about this when things were progressing nicely, I literally never heard from him again. It was truly that instantaneous.
I never opened up to the possibility of being in a serious relationship again. Not one that would put me at risk of abandonment once the other person learned of my "damage."
I entered into a relationship with a woman. I truly loved this woman - but it wasn't the love of a partnership. It was a deep friendship that I allowed myself to put undue significance upon. A relationship I used as filler for the black hole of my hurt and pain. It was wrong for me. For ME.
And, after a few years, it also failed. Even though I knew intellectually that it was wrong, in my heart I needed, wanted it to be "it." It was safe. No baby making requirements needed.
Well, it wasn't safe. It was never right. And my "shortcomings" came into play again - and she cheated on me. Twice. A deep friendship was damaged beyond repair.
Another affirmation that I'm too broken to be loved.
Now, it's too late.
I had my hysterectomy 21 years ago. I'm just shy of 46. These dreams are long put away.
I no longer hope to adopt.
I have long since stopped believing I'll find "the one." I don't trust love anymore.
Even my sweet pup is old (15). Soon, he'll be gone, too. I can't even begin to fathom how I will deal with the loss when that day comes.
I totally believe love happens. For other people. Not for me.
Not anymore.9 Comments