In the face of losing something we love and care about we find ourselves desperate to make amends and plead for more chances to make the wrongs right again, and smoothe over everything that's become broken.
We hold within ourselves an immense capacity to love and radiate warmth and joyousness. I feel that every time I think about where my life will go from here, and how beautiful it will be again.
Yet I digress that I am so very fearful right now, knowing that this joy and love is waiting for me again. The crossing into the unknown abyss to where I've never ventured scares me in a way I cannot explain. A great deal of hurt is going to come, for all of us, and I question how I will withstand it, and protect the ones I love in any way I can. Yet knowing that this certainty looms before me, I cannot bear to stay where I am. I am lost in uncertainty about whom I have chosen to spend my life, and I cannot answer the questions of whether or not I want to stay with him.
Sensing this, he's changed the game and announced that he wants a vasectomy reversal, so we can have a child together. No more donors and doctors and ovulation schedules. In the corners of my mind where there is the tiniest cleft of love remaining, the shreds I tucked away that will stay with me and haven't been mired in the years of unhappiness and neverending fights and harms, it feels the ache of joy I so badly wanted those few years ago. Every time he postponed and reasoned how we should wait another 6 months, another year, another few months again, just this little bit longer. Always pushing it farther away from me and never wanting to talk about what would happen, how we would get through it. Never making it a reality for me, only a desire just out of reach.
It's been so long since I've dared to hope that this would be a REAL decision, or a real conversation, I've had to quiet my heart and keep from bubbling up with tears and sobs. I've had to force myself to keep from feeling attachment to this, almost to the point where, when I think about a baby, I don't feel happy anymore. I feel a cavernous sadness inside me where the dark is waiting for me to venture to it, so it can take me and never let me go.
The sharp pain of longing no longer exists, I just have to accept that in this moment, in this life, this is what I will have, and the yearning must be quelled in order for me to survive. It pulled at me so hard and for so long, that it feels like I've lost something so important that I can barely take time to really mourn its loss.
My journey will continue, and I will have to mourn when I'm ready. Life must continue and I must find happiness within it. Life is suffering and yet there's no other way to overcome what's needed.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
Anything worth fighting for
The inability to concieve a child naturally takes a toll on a couple. Making love for years and never getting pregnant. Some months when you're busy living life without worrying about a new baby it's not something you think about, and others you feel a dull and constant ache through every fiber in your mind that just causes you to yearn for it.
You see around you people making joyous announcements with large smiles and hands all over beautiful bellies, and people surrounding them with happiness. And you feel empty, and guilty for it. Why shouldn't you feel blessed enough with what you already have. "You already have G, why do you need anything else?" He asks me. For the last two years he's slowly turned the tide on the plans to have another baby and pushed continuously to leave those plans behind and just live our lives without one.
I always had this dramatically romantic idea that the ultimate celebration of love and togetherness was to have (or want to have) a child.
That ache is mine, and mine only. It's not a pain I share with him. It's only mine.
I'll turn 33 this year. Not hardly old enough to be watching the grains of time slipping faster and faster, but old enough where I'm seeing more gray hairs moving in, and I've noticed deeper lines where I smile and squint. Times not going backwards, that's a definite.
There's a reality that I've been tonging around in my mouth and haven't dared spoken to many, but it's that if I stay where I am, I will be fighting alone to have a child with someone who doesn't want one himself.
You see around you people making joyous announcements with large smiles and hands all over beautiful bellies, and people surrounding them with happiness. And you feel empty, and guilty for it. Why shouldn't you feel blessed enough with what you already have. "You already have G, why do you need anything else?" He asks me. For the last two years he's slowly turned the tide on the plans to have another baby and pushed continuously to leave those plans behind and just live our lives without one.
I always had this dramatically romantic idea that the ultimate celebration of love and togetherness was to have (or want to have) a child.
That ache is mine, and mine only. It's not a pain I share with him. It's only mine.
I'll turn 33 this year. Not hardly old enough to be watching the grains of time slipping faster and faster, but old enough where I'm seeing more gray hairs moving in, and I've noticed deeper lines where I smile and squint. Times not going backwards, that's a definite.
There's a reality that I've been tonging around in my mouth and haven't dared spoken to many, but it's that if I stay where I am, I will be fighting alone to have a child with someone who doesn't want one himself.
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