The Reality of the Situation

My mind played a dirty trick on me. A few nights ago, I had a very vivid dream where Tim and I found out we were pregnant and we were trying to decide how to tell our loved ones. We were happy. When I woke up it was evident this was not the situation. The next day was followed by granny panties and a strong need for chocolate, reaffirming the no-baby situation.

I understand a lot of couples don’t want babies or are grateful for that monthly reminder that they are in fact baby free. I used to be excited about that too. Until I was diagnosed with Poly Cystic Ovary Syndrome. Until I was told odds of me conceiving are silm. Until that option of having kids was taken from me.

My husband and I have been attempting this whole “let’s start a family” thing for well over a year. We’ve faced a lot of hardships in that year. To the people who get knocked up on the first try or within the first month, fuck you. Fuck you in your happy fucking faces. I know I’m not the only woman who faces this. Who weeps when she gets her period or feels a pain in her chest when she sees people with strollers. I know. I know it’s not just me. To all my friends pregnant or with newborns, trust me I don’t hate you, I just wish I was you. It’s just tough for me to see the pictures of your babies. To hear the antidotes. To know all the ins and outs of your pregnancy. It’s hard. It’s really, really hard.  To be honest it’s like a slap in the face. But at the same time I can’t stop looking at your pregnant bellies and your baby pictures. It’s a very painful addiction. I know I comment on all your photos and like all your statuses  and seem really interactive and I am genuinely happy for you. It’s a punch in the guts. Your children are all so beautiful. I will never stop admiring your children and commenting on your statuses.

There are couples who have tried for a lot longer than Tim and I. There are couples who have tried everything. We’re new to this. We’re new to the feeling and the understanding that pregnancy is not an easy, automatic gift.  That the equation isn’t always first comes love then comes marriage then comes a baby in a baby carriage. Sometimes it’s  love and marriage and an empty carriage.  Or love only. Or dogs. Or cats. Or nothing at all. And that’s okay. That’s life. It’s no one’s fault. It’s no one’s responsibilities. It’s no one’s defect. It’s just life.

To those with children, I don’t think you’re lucky or blessed or favored. I think you’re a family, same as mine. I think you’re happy, same as mine and I think you’re grateful for them. 

Letter to Myself

Dear Josh,

We are memories, dust. We are random skin flakes, fabric and dirt. We are cobwebs and filth. We collect in corners. We wait. I wish it would have ended better but there was no other way for it to end. Suicide threats and bruised ribs. Heartache, betrayal, alcohol. I take full responsibility for my disloyalty. I cheated on you. I left you for someone else whom I then married. That's aching betrayal. That’s destruction.

For over 2 years we had our moments. We should have broken up long before we dug our trenches and weathered the war. No one but us understood why we were together.  Why we ignored everything around us.

That first night. We were trapped. We were 3 hours from home, staying with friends for a wedding. I was almost asleep. You were drunk. You wrapped your hands so tightly around my neck. I couldn't even scream. I was too shocked to try. Your eyes were so sad. I thought those blue daggers were going to be the last thing I ever saw. We were dying. First my edges got blurry and I stopped fighting I didn't break eye contact, not once. It was strange but at that moment right before the world went black I felt we were the same. For a fleeting pause, we switched place, you were the one dying. When my eyes fluttered open the next day I drew in a sucking, ravenous breath and exhaled tears. I ran to the bathroom and puked. I avoided you all day at our friends' house. I wore out our welcome because I didn't want to spend 3 hours in a car with you. Your eyes were still so sad.

My pulse raced. My hands shook as we got in the car. Every movement you made – to change the radio station or check your phone – caused a violent shift in my position. Over the course of 3 hours you won me back. You shouldn't have.

Loving you was exhausting. You made me feel so different. You lavished attention. You made me confident and beautiful and needed. Then you'd drink. Every night. I would explain away your behavior in public. I defended you. People asked me why, I had no real answer. I loved you. It was enough. I was skilled at reading you. I knew when we went home or went to bed what was going to happen. The nights I'd wake up to your hands around my throat. Fingers tightening. I knew better. I stayed. I stayed for those blue eyes and those meaningful words and that hard body. I stayed because I felt no one would ever love me so desperately, deeply, suffocating as you. I stayed because you stayed. Because dust is unseen.

Illness after strange ailment after injury befell me while we dated. My body was fully rejecting what we were. I didn't listen. Until my Colposcopy. I was scared and turned to you for the downpour of your addiction. You said,

"I just want you to know, if it's cancer or something serious, I'm not going to stick around. I can't watch you die slowly."

My world with you got fuzzy and faded to black. I could feel your fingers on my neck only this time your eyes, your beautiful blue eyes, were hard. You tried to backpedal when everything cleared. I should have ended it then. Instead we lingered. Dust on the air. We flitted. We fell. We became stagnant. Listless.

I broke your heart then. Smashed it into pieces with someone new. We should have separated then, completely. My guilt let me cling to you. Until I picked you up from the bar and brought you home. Your anger was palpable. It spilled over. I didn't believe I would survive this time. You pinned me to the wall and then the ground. You put your full weight into it. I still have the shirt you ripped when I tried to get away. Suddenly, though, it all shifted. You were the one dying.  I scurried to a corner, shaking, my phone smashed or thrown. The neighbors didn't even call the cops. I know I screamed this time. I know I begged for help. We crawled together to bed. After you begged me to kill you. After you turned a blade on yourself and I had to save you. I let you hold me one last time.

We are dust. We are molecules. We are memories in a faded, weathered photo album. Yellow pages turning in on themselves. I was happy forgetting you but you were never really forgotten cobwebs get rebuilt, wars leave scars. Your accident, where you died twice. Created an unexpected ripple effect for me. I contacted you, because I could watch you die slowly. Through our interactions I realized you still had a grip on my neck. You would say key phrases that would embed themselves under my skin. Burrow in my brain. One of us will always be dying. My only option. My only choice. Is to dust.