It's not easy to write about being a bitch. I want to have this thing as a place I can record all my crazy, even the sort that puts me in a not-so-good light, but it's not easy to write things that I know make me ugly.
Our good friend and former roommate called with news Friday night. She's 28 weeks pregnant. Allow me to take this moment to remind you that she just found out she's pregnant like 2 weeks ago; we'd thought she was maybe 20 weeks. PANIC. 7 months without prenatal care, 7 months without vitamins, 7 months without watching her diet, 7 months without abstaining from all those poisons we put in our bodies - be it alcohol or Ibuprofen.
But her baby, thank goodness, is healthy and right on track to make an appearance in late February. And it's a Girl!
And I am jealous as hell, and I can't make it stop.
I'm happy for her, please don't misunderstand that. I'm scared for her and excited for her and hopeful for her.
But I want what she has and it makes my heart hurt if I think about it too much.
I keep telling myself that it will come to us, all in good time. I remind myself that I don't want to experience a third trimester in the humid, sweltering, Ohio Valley summer (which is what would happen if I got pregnant now). I say, "Well, I want to be able to canoe in May, and I can't do that if I'm pregnant." I list all my blessings (see: previous entry re: my ridiculous jealousy), I remind myself that I already have so much, I remember that I don't need anything more in my life to be happy.
Oh, but I want, I want, I want.
I've got to get over this. I've got to stop coveting things that aren't mine. I've got to stop feeling as though I've been cheated by the Universe. I've got to accept that life goes on, and that the pregnancies of others are not a direct attack on me or the Universe's way of punishing me; they have nothing to do with me. Successful, happy pregnancies are the way it's supposed to be, and one day it will be my turn too.
I think the biggest contributing factor to my insanity is the fear that something will be wrong; I'll have scarred tubes or Jimi's sperm count will be low or my womb will turn out to be an inhospitable wasteland. If I could just have some reassurance that yes, one day it WILL be our turn, then maybe I'd not freak out so much and turn quite so green every time someone announces a pregnancy or birth or first birthday party. It's the fear that that one pregnancy was a one-time fluke that never should've happened; that we'll fall into the world of infertility...and, well, that scares the shit out of me.
I hate the way I sound. I hate complaining and whining and bitching. I had one miscarriage, after an unplanned, unexpected pregnancy, and now it feels like my desire to have a baby is consuming me. I can't write this without feeling like an asshole; I read blogs every day written by women who have lived my worse fears - learning they'll never carry a pregnancy to term, or having miscarriage after miscarriage, or trying for months and months and months with no results and no financial means to seek medical advice. I know this shouldn't invalidate my feelings or my concerns, but it certainly makes me feel a little melodramatic.
But I can't help the way I feel. And until I get pregnant again, until I hear that baby's heartbeat, until I see its image on the ultrasound screen, until I give birth to a perfect little blend of me and Jimi, I'm probably going to keep feeling this way every time someone announces a pregnancy, a birth, a first birthday. But I promise, I'm trying to get better at hiding it. I'm trying so hard.