It’s four-fucking-thirty in the morning. I haven’t been able to sleep yet. I just ate an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers with cream cheese on them. Yes. An entire sleeve. And from the moment I grabbed them until the moment I was done eating them I kept thinking “Ask me if I fucking care how much I pay for all of this gluten. Nope, I don’t.” (I know I’ll think differently in 12 hours or so when my body is aching and my legs hurt so much I can’t rest my laptop on them and I’m so fatigued I can barely think.)
I’ve been a mess tonight. I know being premenstrual is making it worse. But there’s so damn much pain and grief about not having another child. When will it go away? So much pain. I don’t know what to do with it except cry and feel horrible. I feel like I may have taken a small step forward with it all tonight though. It’s been far too easy to know there is a tiny chance of getting pregnant and let my mind go there. Miniscule chance. But hey, 1 in 10,000 (or worse) is still a chance. I let myself go there this cycle and had sex at a fertile time. Except the chance of a tubal failure AND conceiving at almost 46 years old is that 1 in 10,000 (or worse) chance and is just not going to happen. I was able to let myself concede that even without a tubal, getting pregnant at nearly 46 is so unlikely. Put the two together and there’s just no chance. That tiny chance isn’t a chance. I can go around and around though. Maybe the tubal has failed. And my cycles are still regular and I know from earlier this year that I’m still ovulating. And and and. But the age thing is starting to shake some sense into me. Okay, the age thing practically brings me to my knees with sadness and pain. But just the thought about my age making it virtually impossible is a step forward.
Twenty fucking years. Over twenty years of wanting another child and I’m still in this position. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why I didn’t get to have another child. I don’t understand why I didn’t get to raise a child. I don’t understand why I didn’t get to raise the children I have. I just don’t understand why I never got another chance. What the hell did I do so wrong? My mind can really go to that question but I do my best not to get sucked up in the thoughts that come in answer. And the rantings of Robert, who will jump on that and let me know well and truly that it’s because I’m a worthless piece of shit who doesn’t deserve it. He jumped in for a brief moment tonight and I was able to keep him from going on. My pain pushed him away. At least there’s a good reason for bowling-over emotional pain.
When I’m suffering like this, especially when PMS is playing into it, it’s so easy to think about suicide. I wouldn’t do it. I could never do that to people, especially my sons. Then I can find myself pleading to the universe to not wake up in the morning. Could I please just not wake up once I finally fall asleep? But I can’t wish for that either because (husband) Cory’s parents need contact information for people who would need to know, and information about our debit cards and bills. You know, logistics. Not that pleading in my bed will make me not wake up in the morning, of course. If that worked, I’d be pregnant.
But I’m not and never will be and have spent more than 20 years wishing and hoping (and Gloria praying) for something that will never be. And it hurts. It really cuts deep. And I don’t know how to deal with it. I know I need to find some books about grief and maybe even a group if something suitable is available. I’m working in that direction. But for now I’ll post this and lay down again and hope that I can finally sleep. I took Ativan several hours ago. Vicodin about an hour ago because fibro pain was part of why I couldn’t settle down to sleep. I’m so damn tired. I just need to sleep. I want to sleep. I don’t want to be awake and feel this emotional pain. I just need to sleep.