I don't like who I've become in some ways. I am bitter all the time, I'm bitter about being bitter. I hate hiding in my own little world, wailing with grief all the time. But, I've also become a stronger person. I am more resilient in some ways. I am more assertive, I don't take anything at face value.
Infertility is always going to be a part of who I am, there is no doubt about that. Nothing can erase what I've went through- a baby will not make me forget the sleepless nights of agony, the failure after failure. There is no cure for this, there is nothing that can erase the past. I have to find a way to live with it, whether or not I ever arrive at my desired destination.
Tonight I began letting go of the idea of having a biological child. I began letting go of the idea of ever having a baby. I started boxing up all the baby things I collected with each pregnancy, each symbol of hope that I clung to in desperation. It just got hard knowing they were in there, accessible in case I wanted to touch them. Seeing them everyday, and knowing what I've lost.
I looked at my book shelves, and saw a story laid out before me. And I cried. Trying to conceive books, blending into infertility books, into pregnancy loss books, and giving way to adoption books. I thought about the pregnancy books, which I wouldn't even allow on my bookshelves. Instead they stay put, hidden, in the armoire in my bedroom. The constant elephant in the room. It broke my heart.
And something snapped.
I began tearing them from the shelves, and each book hefted with it a pent up memory. The first pregnancy book I had bought, so naively, believing that it would be easy. The second one, because I wanted multiple sources of information. Tearing, and tearing, pieces of my heart. I placed them in a pile, and moved on. Next, the infertility books... many so useless to me now. Each one bought, believing it would have the answers. Each one, cleaving to it a piece of hope. I left a few, because they weren't about treatments- they were about coping with this vile disease. Then I saw what remained, and knew I couldn't part with them- not yet.
Weeded down, I am left with books on coping, books on dealing with grief, coping with baby-loss, books on adopting, books on raising an adopted child, and the original books that are too heavy with memory to let go yet.
The box of baby stuff will find it's way to the attic, where I won't have to look at it anymore. Not unless I want to. The books are destined for the thrift store, into another's arms.
Each absence took with it a memory, which I will always keep, but I will no longer be reminded of on a daily basis. Each book a part of my existence now.
I'm letting go. April makes three years since we started this journey- three years and three miscarriages later, I'm ready for it to end. I need it to end.
I can't keep living on impossible dreams.
This isn't the end, it's simply the beginning of letting go.
We're still going to get the laproscopy, still get the SHG and ovarian drilling... but I refuse to have faith in them. They are just another step in the process of letting go- knowing I did everything I could.
Where am I going from here- I don't know yet. We are planning, we're going to save money for adoption, keep moving along. I am just tired of putting everything on hold for an impossible dream. I'm tried of feeling stagnant, feeling trapped, feeling desperate, feeling angry, feeling bitter. I'm just tired.
Three years is a long time to keep going through hell.
Especially when there's no end in sight.