I am aging, fast. In one month, I will be 39 and I have lines on my face to prove it. I’m convinced that the stress of recurrent pregnancy loss and unmitigated depression is accelerating the process and I am not happy about it. Mostly though, it’s the anger. I spit fire and have become vitriolic and cruel.

My therapist says I need to learn to be happy for new mothers; I demurred. I haven’t spoken to my best friend since my tfmr. We were pregnant together–she actually set up her nursery before going off birth control. I can’t forgive her that innocence. I know I’m an awful person but I’ve just lost too much. I’ve not much use for friends these days. Alone, I can fight inexorably and apologize to none.

I wonder, if I have a healthy baby, will the world take me back? Or am I irrevocably damaged? The uncertainty of the future makes me quiver with panic. I want to be okay again. And young–I long to be young.


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