Today, I’m not that good a person.

WARNING: The following post is an expletive filled rant.  It’s not my most flattering post, but the point of the blog is to be honest about my experiences.  So, if you’re easily offended, please skip this post.

I’ve tried really hard to remain composed.

I know resenting you is futile.  I know your happiness does not cause my unhappiness. I know your success is not my failure.  I know your fertility does not cause my infertility.  I know your fecundity does not cause my barrenness.

Some of you say,
“You should be grateful you live in a time with this technology,”
“You’re lucky this is an option for you; it’s not for everyone,”
“Aren’t you excited you found a donor?”
“Family isn’t about blood,”
“When it’s all over it will be worth it,”
Etc.
Etc.
Etc.

And you know, you’re right.
I should be grateful.
I should be happy.
I am lucky.
I know all this.

Someday I will be all those things.

But some days, I’m just not that good a person.

Today’s one of those days.

 

Today, I’m jealous.

And resentful.

And bitter.

And just plain pissed.

 

For fuck’s sake is it really necessary during every, single commercial break of the television show I’m binge-ignoring to show the same advertisement for a new series following several couples who are “expecting”?

And apparently it’s that point in the ratings season where every, single show must announce a shocking, plot-twisting pregnancy scandal.

And that’s only the shit icing of the shit cake I’ve been served lately.  There’s been cutesy pregnancy announcement after naked newborn photo after lengthy list of this year’s hottest baby names.  I’m inundated from every angle.  Baby products and conception tips and infertility treatments infiltrate my life.  (Stop rubbing my face in it, Big Brother!)

So I’m pissed.

But I’m not just pissed.

I’m fucking pissed.

In fact, I’m mother-fucking pissed.
(How’s that for a little expletive irony–mother? mother fucking? No mothers here, by fucking or other means.)

I’m pissed that other people can take fertility for granted. I’m pissed that protruding pregnancy bellies stalk me through stores.   I’m pissed that everywhere I turn are happy families.   I’m pissed that literally hundreds of my acquaintances have had children in the time we’ve been trying (and, yes, hundreds is accurate…I have a list).  I’m pissed that 32 was too old, and 34, nearly 35, is WAY too old.  I’m pissed that my ovaries have betrayed me.  I’m pissed that trying to conceive is costing us a small fortune. I’m pissed that infertility is considered an elective medical condition.  I’m pissed that I’ve had more invasive exams in the last year than most women have a decade.  I’m pissed that everything must be monitored and planned and organized and scheduled and a conscious fucking decision.  I’m pissed that I won’t ever get to surprise my husband with a pregnancy test.  I’m pissed that I won’t get to announce my pregnancy with a cute staged photo.  I’m pissed that I have to make decisions most people never do. I’m pissed that, yet again, I’m going to be on daily hormones and injections, for months.  I’m pissed that everyone expects me to be happy and grateful and overjoyed that I get to have some other woman’s kid. And I’m pissed that I’m not allowed to be pissed.

Mostly, I’m pissed that it’s just not fair.

Today, I’m not that good a person.