The Shame of Bitterness

Okay ((deep breath)) - blogging is supposed to be therapeutic, right? Right. So I have to write. About my "baby emptiness" again. More about it.

I hate to dwell on the same subject time after time, because I don't like to imagine this is some little pity party. I don't like thinking that people are asking themselves why I keep coming back to this same topic. You might be wondering that if that's the case, why I don't just write about it in a journal for myself instead of blogging about it. The answer is simple, yet complex. If I journal privately about it, it still feels like it's festering inside of me and only me. If I blog about it here, I feel at least like particles of it are dissipating, being sent out into the air, leaving me. And there's more. I don't like feeling the way I feel. So maybe if I write it out here, it will feel less...lonely. Less ugly. It's really the ugliness that gets to me. If I write it out here, maybe I'll be so ashamed of the ugliness that I will teach myself to come to terms with it and move on.

I never thought I'd be one of those people who couldn't have children. But what's more than that, I never thought I'd be one of those people who couldn't have children and so was jealous that other people had them. And the more time passes, the more I fear I am becoming jealous, even bitter. Bitter and Arielle aren't really two words I'd ever consider akin to each other... but even I can recognize that for split seconds here and there, I am bitter. I hate writing those words. But I hate feeling them even more.

When I am in certain situations, in certain moments, I feel like this strange sadness fills up my "baby emptiness" - like there is some heavy liquid rising to the top of some void within me. I can't stop it and often, this feeling happens without me even realizing it has. And then WHAM! - I'm knocked down. Figuratively, but nonetheless, knocked down. It happens without warning, often during otherwise normal or even happy moments. I get so angry with myself in these moments, because I tell myself that I am not allowing myself to experience the joy that's there.

I was at my parents' house yesterday. My brother was there with his adorable and precious baby, my niece. I love this little girl to pieces. And yet, before I know what's happening, that "baby emptiness" that's always there inside me is suddenly filled up with this horrible, heavy liquid and it's all I can do not to go sit in a corner and pout. Like, why would I want to ruin beautiful moments of family joy sitting off to the side feeling sorry for myself? Why would I want to think about bad things when great stuff is happening before my eyes? I get SO angry at ME. But I can't help it. It's a force all its own.

It's not a case of 'you have something and I don't' so I'm jealous. If I was single or several years younger and just wanted to be a mother, but it hadn't happened for me yet, I wouldn't feel this way. It's because I'm married and I'm 27 and the trying to conceive, followed by visits to a fertility specialist, followed by diagnosis of No-Way-In-Hell, followed by another year and a half on top of THAT of sitting with that diagnosis every day makes me physically hurt. If I just wanted it, but there was hope, I wouldn't feel that terrible envy.

And that the envy is there... it makes me sadder still. I wish I didn't feel it. But it's real. I tell myself I have to allow myself to feel the pain I feel. That it's okay. But it doesn't change the fact that I sometimes go into sweet, happy situations ready to enjoy a child for the child's sake and end up going home later feeling depressed.

Before I got married, my Nana gave me this book called Married For Life: Inspirations from Those Married 50 Years or More. I admit that I have never read it in its entirety. Today, while I was cleaning, I found it and opened it up to the middle. The page staring up at me was about envy. "Learn to be content with what you have." That's the heading of the page. At the bottom, there is a quote: "A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones." With a deep sigh, I nodded to myself. THAT is exactly how I feel. Like this envy is going to rot my bones. So this is why I write here, getting it out where it's less than private, airing the wound, trying desperately not to let the wound fester.

I am ashamed of how I feel sometimes. I don't like bad feelings within me. I want to be filled with good. I can scarcely put into words how I feel. The best word to describe it is: lonely.

I'm out of the parent club. "You're not a mom, you couldn't possibly understand." I'm running out of time. "When are you going to have kids? Rick is getting pretty old."

And then, maybe the piece of which I'm most ashamed: Sometimes I feel second-best. My parents have their first grandchild. They're so happy with the baby. It's awesome. But sometimes I feel like a selfish child with the thoughts that run through my head, and that is the part I hate. Does it matter if I'm doing impressive things or working hard? I don't have a baby. The conversations everyone is always having are about that fun kid stuff. I don't have fun stuff to talk about. I mean, like my grandmother for example - she was happy to talk to me about things when I was getting married. That was something to talk about and get excited about and ask about. But now... the excitement is over...has been over...I have no kids so no one asks about my life. The lull has happened. I get asked, "How's school?" or "How's work?" but as soon as I begin to answer with a "Busy, but good," people move on to the next thing that's going on. My life is boring to them. The only one who gets excited about it is me. And I guess that's okay, but I feel unimportant. Extended family always wants to talk about all the kids - what they're doing, how they are, if they're sick, if they're being good, look at pictures. Me? I have cats. No one cares. It's just sad, being obsessed with cats. I have a website. And some jobs. And grad school. And a husband who's in pain. But I'm happy with all that - and I'd talk about it for hours if you asked what my weekly video is about this week... or what my research project is about... or - you see? It's like I'm jealous and left out and it's very reminiscent of what a little child feels when they get a new baby brother or sister. Except I'm an adult woman and this does not feel good inside. I don't want to feel like this.

My parents do a lot for me. I know they care about me. I just get all twisted up inside because I feel constantly like I'm standing on the periphery of the good stuff. If I feel left-out, then I must be ungrateful somehow and then I'm angry at myself all over again.

But back to the sneaky heavy liquid filling up the "baby emptiness." When I went to my parents' house yesterday, I was feeling pretty good. I was a little tired, but mostly good. By the time I left to go home, I was depressed. In a room with my parents and my brother and my niece, I felt extra. Weird. Lonely. It's all ME. It's not them. It's me. I do this to myself.

But that sneaky little awful feeling that's been there since Rick and I found out we can't have any children - it never quite goes away - and it had lit again (as it does from time to time)... and the fire was bad. I drove home, feeling angry with myself that I have become a woman who can't enjoy pleasant things without being reminded of what I DON'T have, and I hugged my husband. Talked to him about it for a few minutes. Went upstairs to fix the internet that was down. Got a few text messages from my mom asking if I was okay. And you know what I did?

With the door shut, in the middle of the spare room where I keep my desk, the stupid room that was supposed to be a baby's room, on my elbows and knees with my iPhone in one hand and an ethernet cord from the back of my modem in the other, I cried hysterically to myself. I cried so hard I thought something was wrong with me. I never did reply to my mom's last text. I eventually dropped the phone and the ethernet cord, and that's how Rick found me some 15 minutes later, still on my knees in the middle of the floor, my face in my hands, crying loudly like the world was ending.

He rushed right to me. Held me tight. "Oh my poor baby. My sweet Arielle." I was too embarrassed and too emotional to speak. I had never intended to CRY, let alone for him to actually find me like that. But even if I had been able to speak, there was no need. Rick knew exactly why I was crying. I didn't need to say a word. So we sat there on the floor with our arms around each other. And when it was over, it was over. And I went to take a shower. And when I came downstairs and climbed in his lap in his chair, I whispered, "I'm embarrassed." He told me there was no need to be.

But I am. People have real problems. People have real tragedies. I don't want to turn into a jealous, bitter, self-pitying lady who cries on the floor while holding an ethernet cord because she's so startled by the sheer pain of what she feels.

Today, while cleaning, after I found the Married For Life book from my Nana, I found the folders from our visits to RMA (Reproductive Medicine Associates) I had tucked away in case we ever win the lottery and can afford $14,000 for IVF which we were told probably wouldn't work anyway. So basically, like $14,000 x 10 for all the tries we'd have to do for a tiny percentage that would be miraculous, not probable.

Then, in my file drawers where I have labeled hanging folders, I found the damn file labeled "Baby" - that's where I used to put all the ideas for nursery decorations, or art projects to do with a child, or budgeting forms for the first few years, or you know - all that cutesy stuff people rip from catalogs and print off the internet when they have Baby Brain...back when we were planning to get pregnant/trying to get pregnant in 2009 and I had no idea I was destined to cry on my carpet like a wreck in 2012.

Then, an hour later, stuffed in the closet of the spare room, I found a CVS bag with a brand new pregnancy test 2-pack - from when I used to time cycles and be so eager and try, try, try every month. And obviously be prepared. ((sigh))

I'm afraid this long post is about to end with neither a moral nor a lesson. And despite the horrendously self-pitying nature of all of the above, I'm eternally thankful for the love of my husband, the joy of my niece, and the fact that I'm able to repair the internet connection in the midst of an emotional meltdown.