It has been quite a long time since I have written anything deeply personal on here; even when I delved a little into my life and shared anything it has been deeply censored and angled to focus on the beauty of my life and the things that I am proud of, much like anybody who has a blog tends to do.
In a way, social media has made us all focus more on the positives- but the huge problem is that it has put our focus on the positives that others are showing us every day in an endless stream of beautiful selfies and cultivated food pictures and witty memes and exciting announcements that make their lives look perfect and glossy in a way that we all know they cannot possibly be all the time but I don’t know . . . maybe they are?
Read that again, please; we see what others are showing us and we are deeply uncomfortable with anything real- and if that is you, I am telling you that it is 100% OK to be that way.
But you should probably leave now because I am going to peel back a layer and talk some real truth that only grown-ups will want to hear; close the door on your way out, nobody is trying to heat the whole neighborhood.
Now that it’s just me and you I want to talk a little bit about isolation; regardless of what is causing it, or making us seek it, or hurting us enough that we feel alone we live in a time when communication has never been easier and, yet, people have never been lonelier. We feel like everyone else has it easier or better because we like the polish, the Instagram stories, the Facebook stories that show a giddiness so deeply deceitful it is insidious because none of it is really all that real. Everyone has issues and problems and fights with their spouse; everyone has forgotten their wallet in the car and caught attitude from the cashier ringing them up when they had to leave to go get it; everybody, and I do mean, everybody forgets their bag full of reusable bags and goes home with 75 more plastic bags that will never break down and that they should recycle at some point but will probably throw away instead.
So I am taking off the gloss.
I have secondary infertility.
I have been dealing with this since 2017 and in that time-frame I have watched countless friends give birth to multiple kids, some who were taking the same measures in infertility treatments as me but had success while I didn’t, congratulated them, cried in my bathroom at least a few times a month, and tried to pick myself up and get on with it without a concrete plan because plans are expensive but not having one is terrifying.
And plans are ideas; expensive and soul-crushing ideas when and if they don’t work the way we expect them to.
It’s hard to talk about but probably not in the way you think it would be; it is hard because the instinct other people have to “help” shuts down the truth of the hopelessness, silences what they are very glad never happened to them.
It is hard because so often the response when I tell people who have asked me why I won’t give my daughter a sibling is so awkward for them (it should be, don’t ask people stuff like that) and they want to rush to silver line the situation or rush to defend their insensitivity with a little “hard to swallow pill” they think I haven’t thought of.
Aren’t you kind of old to be worrying about this? (Thank you. Ever been hit in the mouth for saying dumb things? Asking for a friend.)
They refer you to a friend or relative who is studying to be a doula or widwife and that person tells you that you’re in menopause without ever meeting you in person (I’m not, but I needed that to worry about on top of everything else weighing on me. Thank you.)
They tell you “but you already have a baby” (I know. Thank you. My desire for more didn’t get shut off by her adorableness or her spunky nature or anything like that).
They tell you that God only gives babies to people who deserve them- I mean, really, really deserve them because those people are good people. (I am not sure if they mean the subtext to be that I am not a good person. But . . . thank you?)
They tell you you’re next; they tell you that you just need to take this one supplement that some Playboy Playmate or Mommy Blogger or any other nameless faceless person took and voila! Twins. God gave them that gift.
They don’t want to hear your pain. That’s the long and short of it. They don’t want to hear mine or anybody else’s that infringes on their wish that if other people’s lives can’t be perfect like theirs then could their grief be quiet? They shut you out, or down and it hurts but all they have done is temporarily hijack your problems with their annoyance and that isn’t about you, it’s about them.
Ok, I think I have weeded through every possible undesirable response this might get and I want to get on with what I actually want to say because this post isn’t for those people, Little Sister.
This post is for you.
You’re not defective or broken; and the people who make us feel that way when they ignore us or shut us out or decide that we are extra because we are in a season of waiting and are feeling impatient, and left out, left behind, hurt- those aren’t the people we need right now.
We need the people who know how to say they’re so sorry we’re still waiting and they hope we figure it out; the people who see the sadness in our eyes and look at us anyway and smile; the people who know how to say “I just don’t know what to say but I care and I’m here”.
We need each other; because the isolation of fertility doesn’t get to win.
It doesn’t get to disrupt our lives any further than the consuming madhouse waltz it does during the entirety of every active month or hurt our friendships or tap dance on our personalities; we need to remember that we’re not alone because isolation is dangerous, ladies. None of us is an island.
We’re not the only ones struggling- we’re the ones with a struggle that is easier to spot, the ones who are met with more good-natured, well-intentioned questions we can’t answer when we try to be honest with nosy people when we really should be telling them to mind their business or ignoring them altogether.
I am going to say it again; none of us are defective or broken- we are the true definition of warriors because we have to either keep pulling ourselves up and trying or face a future without something we desperately wanted, a future that we have no idea what it will look like and it is a decision that people battling primary and secondary infertility make every single day and then live with.
There is nothing broken about that.
There is nothing but grace and beauty in a journey that didn’t take a straight line; that’s why there are more love songs about zig-zagging, uneven and cracked roads than perfect ones.
Go to the doctor; find out why- if there is not a reason, go to a different doctor. Keep after your wellness in the meantime; don’t take clomid without some kind of examination first.
Don’t listen to people smugly saying they can’t remember their infertility journey now that their past it because it’s all a blur; they haven’t forgotten- and they don’t want to be reminded by being sensitive to you. Not your people. Don’t listen to them.
Don’t listen to anything that hurts you- say no to baby showers and friends who send you ultrasound pictures unless you asked them to, and walking through baby sections, and being grilled by relatives who want to tell you what to do, think, or feel.
Tune it all out.
Focus on you and whatever you need to do to make your family happen and don’t listen to anybody aside from your partner when they offer an opinion; if people don’t want to hear your journey they sure as hell don’t get to soak up the glory of your destination.
Take this incredibly honest time and use it to discover who really loves you and who belongs in your foxhole because not everyone does- you will emerge from this the best version of yourself you can be, the version your family will need, if you let yourself and not giving people who don’t deserve your attention another second of your precious time.
One last thing, before I go;
Stay off the mommy boards that are filled with nastiness and anecdotal success stories and bs that you don’t need; it is Instagram and Facebook fake but without all the pretty pictures.
Take care of yourself.
Until Next Time,
The Chick and Her Chickadee