I forgot how much this hurts

The failing part of trying to conceive. Last night I was so upset I couldn’t even write about it. All I could do was go to the store, buy the ingredients for my own personal recipe for exceedingly unhealthy trail mix (M&M’s, Rolos and pretzels – delish) and devour it while escaping into the world of a book. The only other alternative was sitting on the stairs crying and feeling hopeless, so I’d say junk food and a novel were better. Why the stairs? I have no idea, but that’s where I would have done my crying last night if I hadn’t managed to distract myself.

And then this morning, just getting up was such an effort. Everything was so gloomy and it felt like I was underwater or behind a grey veil. I hate feeling that way. I hate that I was stupid enough to hope that losing 35 pounds and getting my diabetes under control might be enough to solve whatever the problem is. You’d think after all this time, I’d have learned my lesson, but no, I have to be Miss Dumbass Donkey Hopeful and think that maybe I’ll get pregnant on my own. Well, not completely on my own, of course, but without having to resort to doctors and technology.

Instead, that’s exactly what is coming next. I’m going to be 36 in March, and I don’t have time to waste pussyfooting around and moaning about how I don’t want to be infertile. That’s the way it is, and I need to suck it up and accept reality.

I gave myself quite a talking to/pep talk this morning. I knew if I could just get up and get going, I could make it through the veil…this time anyway. I’m pretty resilient, but it gets a little harder not be down and stay down each time we try and fail. Right now I can still convince myself that my time will come. I’m not sure what I’ll do if the day ever comes that I can’t. Maybe it won’t ever come. Or maybe I’ll handle it better than I think I will.