Daylight comes too early, finding me irritable and unrested. I had the best intentions to write every day. The antipsychotic I take really leaves me with zero motivation, so I have to really push myself to do the thing I love best. Yet another thing my illness has taken from me–god, I’m so bitter.
I’ve been exhausted. My days are spent pacing the streets of this little town until my energy is spent. This usually happens while I am at the furthest point from my apartment, and I feel like I’ll collapse before I get home. My shoulders ache from the burden of living; I initially thought this was metaphorical, but now I’m sure this is really, physical pain. My arms and legs are weak, muscles atrophied from the complete lack of activity I’ve performed since my last miscarriage. I feel old, sickly. My thirty-ninth birthday is approaching and here I sit, infertile and miserable. I’m unsure whether I’m suffering a physical issue, or if this is a new type of depression I haven’t yet experienced.
I avoid thinking about the unimaginable. My life, continuing on, no children. I used to dream of raising two kids but I have amended my hopes so as not to appear greedy to any baby gods that may be lurking.
And through this, I remain alone, pushed firmly to the fringes. My mother and I are close, but she doesn’t like to talk about my losses or infertility and immediately dismisses the topic with the dreaded just adopt. I’m pretty sure she realizes I wouldn’t survive the vetting process even if I could afford it…she thinks I’m too ill to keep trying. Now, that stings. My dad is more supportive, having gone through a termination for medical reasons with his first wife, but he seems terrified to discuss anything for fear that I’ll start talking about my cervix or something.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get past this hell of RPL and infertility. Pretty sure I’m permanently damaged.