I am wounded.

I’m wounded.

 

I’m used to being in control of my life.

I’m used to making decisions and being in charge.

 

But infertility takes that all away.

 

You wake up every day and it’s there.

You lie in your bed at night and it’s there.


The sadness consumes you.

 

You want to give up because that has to be better than waiting month after month.

That has to be easier than injecting yourself with whatever foul medicine you’ve been prescribed.

To just be done.

 

I feel wounded.

But I suppose that is because I am.

 

Because I have willed my body to do the one thing it’s supposed to do.

Only to realize that it’s outside my control.

Only to realize that no matter how much medicine I take, how many months pass, you are no more in control than you were the moment you started.

 

You give up hoping because that just seems easier. Just seems safer. If you can pretend you don’t really want it, need it, have to have it, that will just make the next negative more manageable, right.

 

But then you find yourself dreaming of babies, smiling at babies, mapping out your baby room in your head and you realize you are doing the one you hoped to control.

 

You are hoping.

And in that moment, you realize just how wounded you really are.

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