My thirty-ninth birthday rolls over me in waves, and at the same time hits like a ton of bricks. Once, I was beautiful and sanguine but now my heart shrivels and skips, and hope recedes like a falling tide. This is an impossible endeavor–to conceive a chromosomally normal baby? The universe laughs.
And in my head, I go over every. fucking. horrible. thing. I’ve. done. and I weigh my actions against whatever God’s will may be carved out in the stone of my being…was it the alcoholism I indulged in when I was in my early twenties? The friendships I destroyed when I was manic? Lonely and childless, I stumble through my days.
Still I strive to make meaningful connections. I am starved for companionship, hesitant to reach out while I dwell in darkness. Crazy bitch, whispered in my ear. You’re not like them, them with their shiny faces and, oh, the bright eyed children! I realize I am whining, that I may be judged as ungrateful but the truth is that I am painfully aware of my blessings. It’s just that…well, I am greedy and I want more.
My husband sleeps next to me as I write this, his leg touching mine, a lock of hair drifting down over his eyes. I want to give him the world, but all I have are dusty geriatric eggs, a womb that suffocates babies. My dearest love…I am so so sorry.