Sometimes I feel like a recovering addict. Like us infertile girls need our own form of AA. Like having the chance to get up in front of a group of others who have felt this way and saying:” Hello. My name is Marcy and I’m an infertile Myrtile.” would make things a bit easier. Our own Infertility Incognito. And in many ways I think it would. Just as in many ways dealing with infertility is like battling the demons of addiction. Only it’s not a liquor bottle that brings me to my knees. But like other addictions, this thirst is also never quenched.
It doesn’t seem to matter how well I’m doing or have been doing, sometimes it just hits me: this is a LIFE LONG thing. Just as an alcoholic is forever an alcoholic, I will be an infertile woman until the day I die. Dear. God. Until I draw my last breath this will always be the loss in my heart, the ache that never is filled and the battle that will continue to rage on. It’s funny because I gauge my recovery by my reaction to things. Just as I would imagine a person addicted gages their willpower to ignore the bottle calling their name. I can tell how settled I am, or healed I am at a particular moment in time by how I respond to a situation or conversation. Did I break down in tears when I saw the picture of the newborn and new mom? Did I feel insignificant when others talked about their labors and deliveries? Etc., etc. The other day I had a conversation with someone who casually mentioned how easy it is to procreate and the words out of my mouth were “For some.”. Then I paused, did a little self inventory and realized that yes, I was okay right then. It wasn’t a stinging blow (which would NOT have been intentional, and not something most would think would be. Unless they’ve traveled this road).
I’ve spent the last few days trying to think up the back summary for my book. What is going to draw a person in to want to read my story? But how can I summarize a life’s worth of infertility? All words seem to pale next to the reality that this is my story, my innermost thoughts and the cries of my spirit that I have laid out in the hopes to help. It is bare. It is raw. It is all that I am. How can I summarize that? I just don’t know. And how do you battle an addiction that is unseen? That goes without recognition or understanding? Honestly, I’m not sure.
All I can do is stand before you, bare to the bone with my thoughts and emotions.
Hello. My name is Marcy. I am unable to carry children. I have lost that battle physically, but emotionally it rages on. So I try to keep things simple. Right now I am ok. And I would like to offer you an olive branch of hope. This blog and this book are my steps to recovery, and I hope they can help you as well.