We’re going to change my antidepressant. I knew it weeks ago (in fact, I probably mentioned it in some long, wordy blog post) but what I was on was just not working. Well, now the overpriced psychiatrist finally agrees with me. So we’ll try a new pill.
I should be delivering a beautiful baby girl in 3 weeks and a new pill is supposed to make it better that I won’t ever get to hold her? It’ll make it better that she was scraped out of me on Mother’s Day at 16 weeks gestation instead of me laboring with her and hearing that first cry. Some pill is going to make me not hate my body and hate myself every day for the rest of my life? Doubtful.
The psychiatrist asked about my daily schedule and how I function. I don’t. All I do is take care of Sweetie. That’s all I have the strength for and many days I barely have that. We were supposed to go to all these fun classes together this fall- half the time we don’t go because I just can’t face other people and every class but one we signed up for has a pregnant woman or a woman that brings her little infant and her toddler. Some days we get in the car and drive to a park and we turn around and go home if I see other people there- other mothers with multiple children, other mothers who are pregnant. I just can’t do it. It’s just another way that I’m ruining her life- not only does my body kill her siblings, my f*cked up mental state is taking her away from playdates, classes and library storyhours.
Sweetie is too beautiful and sweet and lovable. She’s all I live for and I don’t think that’s good for her anymore. Every moment I look at her I know that having me as a mother is going to mess her up. I’m just too far gone. I look at potentially having a surrogate carry another baby for us and I don’t even know why I think I deserve that, why I should have more children when I know what I’m like inside now? Broken. Shattered. Beyond fixing.
I told myself that I wasn’t going to write another blog post until I had something positive to say. I try to read lots of other blogs now and I’m always loving on their wit and upbeat nature and whatnot. Why can’t I be like that? I’m just a downer and if I wait to be positive, I don’t think I’ll ever write again.
I got another email this afternoon- the third in 2 weeks (but who’s counting) that yep, another friend is pregnant. This one has three kids and was the person who made the worst comment about surrogates being crazy because she worked with a crazy one and she would never use a surrogate. Then she proceeds to say that this was a ‘surprise/unplanned‘ but very wanted ‘little miracle’ .
First off, why the fuck do fertile people feel like it makes it better to hear that their pregnancy wasn’t planned? Do they think that as an unfertile, recurrent baby-killer, I will take the news easier because they didn’t PLAN to have a baby? No- actually it just adds a few extra layers of mindfuck to me. I PLAN and spend THOUSANDS of dollars on IVF AND take endless injections in my stomach and ass AND STILL the only ‘surprise’ I get at the end of the day is a DEAD baby. So tell me again how you PLANNING or not PLANNING and still getting a healthy baby should make me feel better?
Second off, she proceeds to tell me that she wasn’t using birth control but they thought they were being careful. I DON’T CARE HOW YOU GOT PREGNANT. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I don’t get how two 30 year old married adults can feel like they have a ‘SURPRISE’ pregnancy when they aren’t using any FUCKING form of birth control? REALLY? They have 3 other kids, they know how babies are made (at least for people who can have sex and get a baby at the end and don’t require doctors up in their business to get knocked up). I will grant her that this may not have been planned, but if you aren’t using any form of birth control, PLEASE don’t pretend to be ‘SURPRISED’ when you get pregnant.
Then we hear how she had already given away all of her baby things so this was ‘uncharted’ territory for her to start over. UM, please, you send me an email trying to give me advance notice and pretending you are being sympathetic to the fact that I’ve lost 6 babies (and my fertility with the last baby) and then you put in that the worst thing that you are dealing with is needing more baby clothes? Cry me a river that you gave away all your baby things. Let’s talk about trying to START OVER after your BABY dies- that seems a little more uncharted and challenging than having to go to a few garage sales. Am I supposed to be the better person and offer her all of mine since I obviously don’t need them anymore? Here- Sweetie’s little sister DIED, so why don’t you take all her old clothes?
I’m just done. I am too angry and bitter and nasty and I hate this world. My Sweetie deserves better. I can’t handle these cards I have been dealt anymore.