I am restless today. It's hard to concentrate, and the paperwork that has already engulfed my desk looks like it wants to swallow me too. I've hit a wall; all I want to do is take a nap.
The weather isn't helping. We've gone from yesterday's bright, summery skies to an overcast ceiling that threatens to collapse in a heap of rain at any moment. And maybe I am a little bit depressed - yet another friend had a baby last week.
Infertility is isolating. I miss my "old" life. I miss going to C's softball games. I miss hanging out with our friends. I miss our old church, where we knew lots of people and had a history. I miss being happy.
Then I remember the last time I went to a softball game, when I hid in the car and cried because I was the only married woman in the stands without a baby, and because people asked hurtful questions. I remember sitting in our living room while our "friends" gushed for hours about the news of their pregnancy. I remember sharing the news of our diagnosis with our home group, and no one knowing how to act around us anymore. I remember the couple in our home group who told everyone they were pregnant except us. I remember the pastor who led the home group wanting us to leave because we made everyone uncomfortable. (He didn't say it in those words, but that was the bottom line.) I remember dreading church on Sunday, because I didn't want to see him. I remember putting our wedding pictures away, because I felt so betrayed. (He was the pastor who married us.)
And as I remember the pain of all these things, I know that happiness is a long way off. Someone in my infertility support group once told me that she "didn't feel well" for years. That resonates with me today. I don't feel well. Physically, emotionally, spiritually: I just don't feel well. And while I know that joy exists independent of circumstance - that joy and sorrow can occupy the same space without displacing each other - I miss being happy. I miss feeling good.
1 day ago