Psyche Out and Pensive

I hate it when my body lures me into a false hope. I think, just maybe this time, just maybe, I will respond. There are all sorts of signs; achy ovaries, a feeling inside, followed by a temp rise... and then... nothing. Nada. Bullshit. Temp back down, back to square one.

It was all a lie.

I don't know why I bother hoping anymore. It's become quite apparent that the only way these damn ovaries are going to work is if I shoot myself up with the necessary hormones. Yet a small part of me dares to hope, month after month after month, that perhaps this time I will respond to the stupid pills. Nope. Nada. Nothing. My body is laughing at me. It thinks this is funny.

I don't.

I spend so much of my time searching, re-reading, re-analyzing, revisiting old data... hoping that some miracle is going to pop out at me. It's like I hope that suddenly something will appear between the lines and tell me what I'm doing wrong.

It never does.

I need to just come to terms with the futility of it all, and acknowledge that I will not be able to get pregnant until spring or summer... when I have enough money to go ahead with injectable medications. I know this on the conscious level, but it's my subconscious that dares defy me. It, being stupid, keeps hope alive. Futile, stupid, useless hope. I feel like such a masochist for even hoping to respond to the drugs. Such a fool.

Damn my body, it's incompetence, it's failure to even perform the most basic function.

I am coming to terms with the fact that I will have to wait until spring to move forward with my treatment. Not coming to terms very well, but slowly I am coming to terms.

Why is having a baby so hard?

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Maybe I'm just a little emotional. I'm stressed, my body totally psyched me out this cycle, and another birthday is going to pass me by.

I started trying to concieve at twenty-two. I thought I would be a mother by twenty-three (I was so naive.) I would have made that goal though, if I hadn't lost my baby. I would be turning twenty four with an almost one month old baby. It would have been nice. I would have been so happy.

Sometimes I imagine that I hadn't lost the baby; I imagine how different this past year would have been, how different I would be now. It's a nice dream, like when you're someplace frigid cold, and you close your eyes and picture someplace sunny and warm, and you can see it so clearly that you can almost feel the heat on your skin. This vision is so beautiful, me with a child in my arms, my baby didn't die, and everything is alright, I can almost feel him in my empty arms... but then I open my eyes back up and I'm right back where I was, because it did happen; it's still happening.

Friday I am turning twenty-four, in all my anovulatory, childless, and bitter glory.

I don't know if I can take another year of dealing with infertility.