The end of NIAW

27 Apr

I am not good about talking about my feelings.  Or talking at all, actually.  You might laugh at that if you know me.  But most of what I talk about it just chatter, especially around people I don’t REALLY know.  I don’t talk about real stuff.  But I like to write about it.  I used to want to be a writer, actually.  Writing is easy for me, it comes natural.  As a kid, my nose was always buried in a book, and I like to think that my writing developed as a result of all that reading.  Writing helps me to process what I’m thinking and feeling, and it is unbelievably cool to look back on what I wrote a year, two, more ago and see where I was and how far I’ve come.


I wrote countless posts about infertility on my old blog.  When I reread it, I realize just how dark my views were, just how low things were.  When I wrote The Truth blog, I said that it was one of the lowest points of my life.  I don’t know if I really understood just how true that was until this week, when I started rereading the old blog.  Looking back, it was such a dark time for me.  I still feel guilty sometimes for deciding I wanted to take a break–I knew it wasn’t what Eric wanted–but I think it was probably for the best.  I’ve seen all too often what happens when people who are not mentally stable have kids.  It’s not pretty.  And if I can’t get pregnant on Clomid, then I need to be in a good place to deal with that, and I was most definitely not in that place a few months ago.  There are posts I wrote but never published that scare me a little bit because they are so dark.


When I started this blog, I made the decision that I would make it more public (the old blog was only given to a few of my closest friends), and therefore stop writing about infertility.  I really thought I could just forget about it–that the pill was a magic mind eraser.  Silly me.  I debated sharing our infertility with a wider audience.  I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to talk about–which is exactly why it needs to be talked about.  Because when we don’t talk about it because it’s “shameful” or a “secret,” we incorrectly reinforce that it’s shameful.  It’s not.  It’s not my fault that I have the problems I have.  It’s not the fault of the millions of other couples facing this problem.  I have received so many emails, comments and private messages about friends who are having a hard time getting pregnant, too.  People who are not comfortable sharing their own personal stories.  The stats say 1 in 8 couples has a hard time conceiving.  I think that must be higher based on the people I know.  It has to be a result of the foods/chemicals/lifestyle that has become common in the US.  But that’s a whole different topic.  Now that the truth is out there, I feel better, more authentic.  I don’t like lying or hiding things. 


 I wasn’t going to share our story.  But the thing is, I’ve taken a lot of comfort in reading what other women and men have to say about their experiences.  Infertility is a super-charged emotional roller coaster.  And none of the emotions are pleasant or nice.  Hopelessness, depression, rage, anxiety, jealousy, guilt, shame…these are not good things, and they make an already upset person feel even worse.  It’s a downward spiral, and I rode that train once already.  I am scared to ride it again.  I will, but it’s scary.  So if I can add my voice to the millions of voices already out there and provide a little comfort or a little confirmation that it’s ok to feel like this, then why not?  And if nothing else, the writing will help me process my own feelings and thoughts. 

I had put all of my uncomfortable feelings up on a shelf when we started our break.  This week, I’ve started to revisit them.  It’s hard to acknowledge some of them. But I know it’s important to “fess up” to them.  That ultimately it will help me to become a stronger, better person.  And reading that other people have these same thoughts and feelings…it makes them easier to deal with.  It makes it easier to think that I’m  not a bad person and that it’s OK to be mad at the bad parents I see, cry when I see newborns or commercials about family time, guilty for being jealous, less of a woman for not being able to do what I’m “supposed to do.”  I know it will all work out.  And until then, I will just keep runnin’.


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