This is another post in the story of our journey to get pregnant. I look back on this now and feel incredibly silly, but this is how I felt. This is what I was going through at the time. So I'm sharing it.
Six. That's how many months we've been trying to get pregnant.
Six. That's how many periods I've had since we started trying.
In the grand scheme of things, I know that six months means nothing. I know this. I know it in my head.
But my head and my heart don't always speak the same language.
For some reason I had it in the back of my head that by six months I should be pregnant. No idea why. It's silly and unrealistic to expect that. But I did.
And when my sixth period came, down I fell into the rabbit hole of pity and despair. My internal dialogue swung between convincing myself that six months is nothing to swearing that I'd never get pregnant.
I'd burst into tears at sad songs or when I dwelt too long in the dark depths. Swollen pregnant bellies made me wistful. Tiny clothes and tiny shoes fed the longing. I'd stroke the soft fabric of baby blankets. Wishing with all that I am that we would be blessed enough to be given the greatest gift.
After a few days of wishing and crying, I was exhausted. I knew if I continued living in those dark depths with their waves of tears and the tide of pity, I would sink even further. And then it would be even harder to get pregnant.
So I'm doing what I can to stop the worrying. To stop the obsessing. And instead focus on what I have now. Focus on living my life the way I can now. Because once we have a child, life will change.
As the days roll forward, I remember we have each other. Come what may.