Infertility changes you. It dulls your inner light. It leads you to question not only your sanity, but your worthiness. Never have I questioned more my worthiness of love, of happiness, of being a mother, than I have in the past 2 years. The inner light, the love I felt of life, has fled my body like the slow leak of a tire. You can't put your finger on it to stop the leak. You try to refill it, and for short durations, your lungs feel full of air again. But with each negative test, every monthly visitor, the wind is knocked out of your chest again.
You lose yourself to this process. And my god is it a process. The charting, the doctors, the cervical mucus (I'm not kidding), the heightened awareness of your body's every move. It's a total mindfuck to lose yourself of heart and mind in the midst of a time in life when you should be the most self-assured, confident, and collected. In order to be more in touch with your physical self, and by that I mean the fucking cervical mucus, you all but lose touch with your emotional self.
The stronghold infertility has on my life is suffocating most days. A busy day at work is a welcomed reprieve from the other thoughts that crowd my mind during downtime. I went to yoga with a lovely friend last week, and while others were ebbing between an awake/asleep state of mind, I was so very alert. The quiet, peaceful room simply allowed my thoughts to invade my mind and body tenfold. Clearly the point of yoga and meditative rest was lost on me. And for that, I was angry.
Fucking infertility. It makes me angry.
I met with my psychologist today. She's a lovely, spunky woman who drops the "f" bomb - perhaps for my own comfort - and seems just as angry as I am about our current situation. She listens for an hour, interrupts me when I'm being completely irrational, and sends me away with homework. For the last year, I've had the same damn homework - allow infertility dedicated time in your day, invite it in, and then send it away. Why is that so fucking difficult? It sounds so simple in practice, yet I cannot seem to wrap my mind around the concept. My thoughts seem to invade rapidly, oftentimes without warning. The notion of controlling them seems completely impossible. Nevertheless, I will try.
I will try so that I may find myself again. I will try so that I can be the woman my husband married. I will try so that when (not if) baby Brooks makes his or her (or both - or two of each - hello fertility meds!) grand appearance into our lives, I will not only exude, but I will be the light. I will illuminate myself and others.
Infertility is just a fucking word, one of so very many that define me. I just need to figure out how to move it to the bottom of the list.