There were points yesterday when I thought I was going to cry, but didn’t. There have been moments today when I thought I was going to cry, but haven’t. I’m not happy. I’m not so much sad right now as I am angry and bitter. I’m tired. Tired of waiting, tired of hoping, tired of wanting, tired of being happy for everyone else, tired of being left behind.
26 months since I took my last pill. 20 ovulatory cycles. I’ve never had a positive pg test.
The hope is what hurts so much. The excitement, the giddiness all day Sunday as I dared to imagine that maybe, maybe, this might be the cycle that worked. Then blood. Just a drop. A hint of pink. And feeling my dreams come crashing down around my shoulders. Still a breath of hope, maybe it will stop, maybe it won’t get stronger, maybe it will just go away. Don’t tell Manly, let him hope a little while longer, you don’t want to look foolish if you really are pg. But even hope won’t turn back the tide.
I didn’t give my SIL that duck. I kept it for myself, tucked it into the drawer where the blanket lives. It’s mine.
I want to go away for a while. I don’t want to be the strong one anymore, the one who always has it together, the dependable one, the reliable one. I want someone else to hold me up, to let me cry on their shoulder. To take care of things for me so that I can sit by the ocean and stare at the waves. What fucking use is this saved time off if I’m never going to use for mat. leave anyway? Why shouldn’t I sit on the beach instead?
I’m so tired. I don’t want to do this anymore.