I know I shouldn’t feel jealous, but I do. And I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself, but I do. My brain knows how I am supposed to feel, but it can’t convince my heart. My heart keeps feeling the same terrible feelings, over and over again: jealousy, anger, sorrow, bitterness, and pity.
Such is the life of an infertile woman. So many of you would never understand. You would wonder why it’s such a big deal. But for the one inflicted, it eats at your brain and eats at your heart until there’s nothing much left of either. My brain has stopped working at any rational level and my feelings have run just far enough away for me to have lost control, yet feel them clearly.
Sometimes I wish I were 16 again just so I could blissfully and naively imagine my life. Then I could picture who and what I will become and truly believe it. I could dream about the day I’ll become a mother. I wish I could go back, so I could picture myself at home with my kids. I could believe that simple dream will be totally obtainable. I wish I could wade in an undeterred lake of bliss instead of wallowing in pity and heartache. But such is the life of an infertile woman.
What makes infertility so difficult is the assumptive nature of childbearing. Procreation is given by religious- and nature-oriented alike as the reason we are on the earth. They might not agree on how we got here, but that seems to be the general basis of why we fall in love, why we get married, why we’re born ourselves. Procreation is what keeps our species going. It’s the most natural of all jobs in the world. It is our purpose.
So you could imagine how difficult it must be to fail repeatedly at your own purpose.
I feel like less than a woman. I know I shouldn’t. But like my feelings of jealousy, bitterness, anger, I cannot feel what makes sense.
I wish I could have productive musings again.