Wishing for impossible things

I want to imagine this cycle working, I really do. There is hope here, somewhere; I know it is. But I still can't imagine it, I can't see it. I muster it up, but it doesn't feel like a possibility, it's more like an unattainable dream.

People may call me a pessimist, but I prefer "realist." I mean, if you look at the facts, my history... I don't think I'm being a pessimist. I'm just trying to soften the next blow, should it come. You know the saying, "Hope for the best; but prepare for the worst." I've slowly had to kick that up a notch, with each blow, year by year, until it's became simply, "Prepare for the worst."

I am having an especially off day today, I guess.

I was thinking about my house, and how sad it is. A four bedroom house for two people.

Four bedrooms, with three of them finding other uses. One has become my Art Room, one has become the Cat Room, and the last one is just the room that accumulates junk (although it used to be A-s Computer Room). Our dining room isn't used either, it's just the room with the dining table and plants.

We don't even use our yard except to take the dogs out, and I plant things in it, garden, but we have a patio set we have never even used. We don't stay out there longer than we have to. Which is a shame, because in our neighborhood we have about the largest backyard, and it's even got a privacy fence. I keep meaning to buy a cheap grill, and maybe cook out there every now and then... but we never do.

That's so depressing. I mean, maybe there are people out there envious of all this free space... but I can't stand it. It's so empty. My Art Room was originally going to be a nursery. The Cat Room was going to be a child's bedroom, or a guest room at the very least. The Junk Room was either going to be a spare room, an exercise room, or a library... something other than a room to collect junk.

I turned the would-be Nursery into the Art Room sometime shortly after the diagnosis. The empty room used to give me hope, but after the diagnosis it felt like it was mocking me. It hurt to walk by that empty room, reminding me of my empty arms. And so I slathered paint on it's walls, and turned it into my Art Room.

But, even putting it to use... it still hurts to know what could have been, and what simply wasn't.

And then, I live with my house "pet proofed"... but far from "child proofed". I turned into the person with electric cords everywhere, breakables on lower shelves, household cleaners wherever I feel like putting them, and a house just not fit for kids. We don't even have children over anyway, so there's never been an incentive to change that. My brother stays with us on weekends, but he's thirteen. Almost fourteen now. I don't have to worry about child proofing anything for him.

And while it might seem nice to be able to do whatever I want to with the space, to have all that extra room for my own amusement, to have all this stuff anywhere I want it... it's not. Some days it seems so mocking, and I hate it.

I know that even if this cycle doesn't work out, or the next, I know we'll adopt. I will be a mother. But right now, looking at all these rooms, it hurts... because I'm not a mother yet. And every time I look around my house, for over two years now, I've seen all that I've been missing. And it fucking hurts.

(Sorry for the downer post. I was just reflecting today, and wanted to get it out. If you got the Cure reference in the title of this post, kudos. I'm in a Cure kind of mood today, can you tell?)