There’s a thought that everyone has had at some point, or many different points, or constantly, at all points.
Where do I fit in?
Maybe you were an only child, but all your childhood friends had siblings.
Maybe your high school didn’t offer electives that were your cup of tea.
Maybe you chose an unpopular major in college.
Maybe you were overqualified for your job.
Maybe everyone around you was having babies, and you weren’t.
Maybe everyone around you wasn’t having babies, and you were.
I don’t know where I fit in.
For, well, years, actually, I’ve been asking that question. It’s mostly been just the small kernel of doubt and fear at the back of my mind, but since jjiraffe’s post, it started growing and demanding more and more of my attention. With Elphaba’s posts, it’s become this gnawing beast that won’t leave me alone.
Where do I fit in?
I asked myself so many times when I first started this blog, because I’ve never been pregnant, I’ve never started the adoption process, but somehow, here I am parenting. Is it fair that I’m trying so hard when we already have a child? No, she isn’t mine biologically or even legally, but she’s mine. Does that make any sense?
Everyone goes through their own struggles and deals with them in their own way, but I haven’t found someone who has gone through my struggles, no matter how they’re dealing with them.
I do feel better writing about how I feel and sharing it with you, but amidst all the ‘that sucks’ and ‘I’m sorry’ it would be nice to find a ‘me too.’
I never considered starting a ‘marriage after infidelity’ blog, because there’s no way I would have been able to connect with anyone else the way I have with infertility bloggers. Reading those stories would only have made me feel worse, but reading these stories, even the ones without happy endings, makes me feel like I do fit in somewhere, even if I still ask myself if that’s really true.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop asking, but for now, I have to keep whittling, and maybe one day I can make my square peg fit a round hole.
So many things have gone wrong for me that I’m afraid to believe that anything could possibly go right.
Case in point, the car. We found it Wednesday, test drove it, checked it out, but the check my mom sent to help us out was on hold until Thursday, so we couldn’t buy it then. We stopped at Big Lots later, and my husband was about to put a steering wheel cover in the shopping cart when I completely freaked out.
‘You can’t buy that! We don’t have a car! It’s bad luck!!’
You will notice I said a car, not the car, and certainly not our car, because those would have been bad luck too, our car being worst of all.
Maybe a tad excessive, but I just knew that if he got that steering wheel cover, our car would be sold that afternoon, and we’d be left empty handed again.
Then Thursday morning, between the bank and the dealership, cash in my hand, when he asked if I was excited, I truthfully answered that I wasn’t. I felt better because we finally had the money, but there was still the huge fear that someone else had come in and offered more than we did. The money was a safety net; if he had sold our car to someone else, we could find another one promptly.
And the panic when my husband wanted to haggle now that we had the cash in hand! Surely he would laugh and tell us to leave.
Even when the paperwork was nearly finished, I still couldn’t let the doubt go. I mean, you never know, right? A plane could fall out of the sky onto the lot.
I have a serious problem with making contingency plans. I can’t help myself. If you think it’s incredibly unlikely, I’ve already thought out how it will affect the rest of my life, and probably everyone else’s as well. And yet, somehow I miss planning for the things that actually do happen.
So guess what happened Friday night? The check engine light came on. How awesome is that? Then I had to plan for how the car salesman would laugh in our faces the next morning when we told him we needed a fan clutch. Because things couldn’t possibly go well. I couldn’t dream of that.
And yet, they did. He had the part delivered to him and dropped it off with my husband on his way home, because my husband would rather replace it himself. That’s how he rolls.
It’s okay, though, I can still worry that his dad will either forget to bring his toolbox when he comes to town Wednesday, or that something will happen and he won’t be able to come to town anyway.
I can’t help borrowing trouble.
I’m afraid deep down in my heart you will all leave me behind and have babies and forget about me, and that makes me sad.
I’m feeling mighty hopeless today.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
This is my first Time Warp Tuesday! I’ve enjoyed reading some of the posts for it now and then, but this week’s topic just called my name when I saw jjiraffe’s post in my inbox, and come to find out, she even suggested this topic!
To sum up, Kathy at Four of a Kind had the idea to revisit old posts each week, writing a new introduction, maybe about why you chose it for that week’s topic. Here’s what I have for you.
When I first returned to blogging, like many of you, of course I kept a lot of personal things to myself. The thing is, I cannot abide secrets anymore. Due to events in my life, I have a desperate need for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I am the person I am today because there were too many secrets, and I abhor them now.
The more I wrote, the more I read, the more connections I felt with other bloggers. It ate me up inside that I wasn’t being myself. I had begun forming these relationships with other people that weren’t wholly based on the truth. I felt so guilty because I was lying to my friends, to my infertility family, and I didn’t know how to live with myself, knowing about this huge intentional omission, this elephant in the room that no one else could see.
For those of you who are just joining me, no, I’m not pregnant.
And while I didn’t tell much of the story at all, the short-and-sweet AA version consisting of ‘hi, I’m April, my husband had an affair and now I’m a mom sometimes’ was enough to get the monkey off my back, for the most part.
But it was so hard to write. And even harder to publish.
I agonized for so long before talking to my husband about writing something like that. I never want to say anything here that would upset him after all we’ve been through, but he told me then, and has reassured me since, that he’s completely okay with me writing about anything at all that I need to write about, that I can say anything that needs to be said to help me feel better.
Of course, I still hold back. I can’t help that. The interwebs do not need every single intimate detail of our life together. But I do say a lot, because that’s who I am now.
Secrets don’t make friends. I believe that with all my heart. If any of you were to be my friend, I had to get this off my chest. Now that I have, it’s so much easier to be me.
But that’s not the only reason I had to write it. And as immensely important as that reason is to me, it’s not the most important.
I don’t ever want our little girl to ever think that we’re ashamed of her. She isn’t on our Facebook pages (boo to fb anyway!), we tweet about her rarely, and she isn’t mentioned on our Google+ profiles. The only place you can find our pictures of her are here, and even those are a rarity.
We would never, ever be ashamed of her. We are so proud and happy to be her parents. So if you ever stumble upon this in the future, my darling baby girl, know that Mom has always cherished you. Even when you were hitting and biting and screaming bloody murder at bedtime. You are always in my heart, and I love you very, very much.
Aaand here we go again. It’s CD1, after yesterday being CD72. Frick. How fitting that the day I must discard my last faint hopes is the same day I finally have my first counseling session. I had to have some kind of luck sometime, right? Because of course we couldn’t hold off just ten more days so I’d be back at the RE on CD3.
I really didn’t begin this post intending to sound so very bitter.
But now it’s only going to get worse. Because I just got done with my appointment.
I was told three weeks ago that I’d be seeing someone to talk to. Nope. I saw the nurse practitioner to talk about medication even though I thought I made it quite clear to the social worker that I was unwilling to be medicated because we’re TTC. Okay, enough italics.
And enough bitterness.
Because I realized, hell, we won’t be affording the next step–letrozole–until March when the car’s paid for (happy dance!!), so bring on the mood stabilizers, my good woman. Anybody else tried Latuda? We’ll see how it goes.
When I got all done and got out to the car, I was all set to burst into tears. But as the first two rolled down my face, it was like a switch flipped. Screw it. So I didn’t get to talk today. So I’m continuing my break until March. So what. Worrying isn’t going to change anything. I never really got that before. But I get it now. And I immediately felt better. So I guess it did some good today after all.
Now to curl up in bed with a sock full of hot beans on my poor cramping girl bits whilst I wish for my blood pressure to go down some.
There’s so much crap going on right now that I’m just not willing to face in hardcore black and white.
So I will feel free to come back to my safe place here and pretend none of it is happening.
I don’t have to worry about my little brother going to juvie for the next four years, and grown-up jail after that.
I don’t have to worry about my in-laws and any inconsiderate or insensitive choices they may make.
And I don’t have to worry about baby mama drama, because it will happen whether I worry or not.
And I don’t have to worry about the state of my uterus. Because that won’t change anything either.
So I made some awesome Honey Beer Bread. And I’m eating it on the Christmassy plates said youngest brother gave me when he was seven.