My depression is like a gray hole, where the saturation and brightness of the world have been turned down, and 40 pounds of lead strapped to my chest. I become nihlist, not suicidal: ceasing to exist would be fine, but I'm not going to put any effort into it.
After a year of trying, I remain barren. My first due date has come and gone, and we're still trying. And I've started to question how life decisions would have been made differently without the hope of a family. But it is harder for the uncertainty of it all. Maybe this month it will work. Probably it won't.
Maybe the doctor will have answers, but can we afford the solution? My insurance covers no infertility treatments at all. Some of the diagnostic testing, only because of co-morbidity. Maybe I'm just too fat.
Seeing pregnant women hurts. Seeing my friends new babies absolutely rips my heart out. And I am just so angry about anyone who accidentally concieves.
Yet somehow I'm supposed to just keep going, like my body hasn't utterly betrayed me. Like every month isn't a brutal reminder of loss. And no one notices, and no one cares. Maybe I'm just too good a liar. But the irony is that I am the strong, supportive "Mom" friend, not the one who ever needs help.
