FUCK YOU, July
July is the month in which we started trying to conceive. In a skanky hotel in Arkansas, ’cause, you know, SEXY.
A year later, rather than having a newborn, July brought me a chemical pregnancy.
A year later, rather than having a newborn, July brings my return to the Conception Mines. (See Figure 1.)
I should be pleased, but I find I’m filled with misery. I don’t believe this shit will ever work. It’s inconceivable (HA!) that I could ever know that moment of amazement and joy that must come with a positive test. (Before all the fear sets in…) There’s just no way. Not me.
And yes, I’m feeling very sorry for myself and taking for granted all the things that are awesome about my situation. But that’s my fucking prerogative as the person who has to actually live my life.
I know I can handle this. But right now all I can think about is the way my heart felt at the end of every cycle, the way the pain got cumulatively worse as the months rolled by…the way the world is full of happy women who never have to feel this way.