I went to therapy last week. It wasn’t that great but it left me with some interesting thoughts to ponder. The woman I saw–who is filling in for my therapist while she is on maternity leave–did a good job of validating my feelings and then immediately asked, “So how are you going to get through this? What are you going to do to make it through the unknown future.”
I was kind of taken aback. I will admit that part of the reason I went to therapy that week was to vent, to get some validation for the way I was feeling, to talk about what I was always thinking about, to not feel so isolated and alone.
I wasn’t really all that interested in problem solving or seeking solutions. But in the end I’m glad she reminded me that ultimately, I’m responsible for how I get through this.
It strikes me, as I form these sentences and paragraphs, that I’ve said all this before. I’ve literally discussed every single aspect of this post somewhere in a past blog entry. And yet here I am, circling the same shit over and over again. I see myself, walking a three foot deep rut around a blinding light of acceptance, unable to approach it but unable to walk away, and so I just keep circling, trying to find a way to put into practice that which I know will benefit me.
At one point during our session, my therapist suggested I find a way to care about the process of trying to conceive, to be hopeful that it will work, but to not be attached to the final outcome. Ah, I thought, a fellow student of Buddhism.
Later she brought up a similar idea, that of being overwhelmingly grateful for what I have, and still accepting that I want more.
They both seem so impossible. How can I invest myself fully in giving my body the best opportunity to get pregnant, and then not care if I don’t get pregnant? And how can I revel in the wonder that is my daughter, without thinking about how much I want to experience that wonder again, with another child? How do I recognize how much I already have while reconciling the deep pain of wanting more?
It all just seems impossible.
And so I circle these truths, the basic reality that attachment and expectation cause suffering, never getting closer to them, always orbiting their blinding white light of blissful acceptance.
I honestly don’t know what to do. I recognize where I need to go but I don’t recognize what I can do to get there. It’s such a frustrating place to be.
* * * * *
My daughter, who is sick and spending her first, and therefore my partner’s first, day home from school today, woke up at 3am. After I went to her I realized I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep without peeing and that my obligatory 11DPO pee would be happening right then.
I think you can guess what the result was.
Lying in bed I couldn’t coax any tears to come. I tried. Eventually, after almost an hour of lying there, some quiet sobs shook my tired body but there were no tears. I can’t even bring myself to cry about it anymore.
Instead I just feel the light of hope dimming inside me. Without that light, this journey feels ever more perilous.
Every month there is a reason it might work: we timed things perfectly, I’ll get a BFP on my birthday, the date of my last period would be my birthday, this was the month we got pregnant with Isa, their birthdays could be only days apart, just like me and Mi.Vida. There is always a reason it might happen that month and yet it never does.
It never happens. Over and over again it doesn’t happen. And my cycles get more wonky, and less fertile, with each passing month. And I’m less and less able to trust the signs and what they might be telling me. My body has left me in the dark. My heart had left me in the dark.
I am fumbling in the blackness.
I think of all the people I know who are pregnant with their second children. All the fertiles, and infertiles, for whom this journey was so simple, so carefree, so surprisingly easy, and I wonder what I’ve done to deserve this. I wonder what is wrong with me.
Suddenly achieving the impossible has taken on a whole new meaning, as we embark on our eighth attempt at giving our daughter a sibling.
Besides the months after my ectopic, I’ve never felt so hopeless in my life.