The months of infertility that are the hardest, hands down, are the months I hope the most. Those are the months that my brain is telling me to kill the idea of pregnancy, but it winds its way into my heart and takes root. I begin to hope deeper and deeper. I think about telling my friends, my parents, my husband. Imagine the looks on their faces, the tears all around, and the hugs. So much hugging. Then when a test is negative (if I even allow myself to get as far as taking a test) or my period comes, leaving me empty and broken, I curse myself for getting my hopes up again. “You did this to yourself.” “You should have known.”Of course it’s negative.”
It is an engrossing, hollowing pain that makes me regret every bit of hope I allowed myself to feel. I don’t have a silver-lining to this post tonight; just a heavy heart and a desire to be honest.