So, we're done trying to have a baby. Sid has been sent away for a little while, to do some military bullshit, and this was supposed to be our last crack at trying, and we no longer even have that. We're done.
I had hoped that this month we would get it right; I had held onto the hope that these past two months were just shitty luck, and this time, this last time, we'd finally get it. Apparently, we are not even being allowed that final bit of hope. Fate, Mother Nature, or the military has decided that the Mansons just aren't worthy.
Surprisingly, I'm not really sad...yet. Right now, I'm just really fucking pissed. There is a tension in my muscles and a heavy feeling in my chest that will have release, whether by kicking and screaming, or manic exercise. I'm thinking exercise would be the least destructive, most adult choice, but I surely do feel like choosing the first option.
I tried to explain to Sid last night that I wasn't mad at him, just myself, but I don't think he really understood. Maybe I shouldn't be so disgusted with myself, but I can't help but think I was some kind of idiot to hold onto hope. To really think, deep down, that we could have that kind of happiness. Yes, I'm angry at myself because I feel like I was stupid. Like I should have known that I wouldn't have that one thing I dreamed about for what feels like forever.
The last time this happened, I told Sid I would never get my hopes up like that again, that it hurt too much to be so disappointed. Apparently I lied, because I did let myself hope. And it fucking blows to be back in this spot again. This year, though, I will try harder to keep myself out of that holiday slump; when Thanksgiving and Christmas roll around, I can't let myself get back into that bad place, where I keep thinking that this should have been the year we celebrated new life, I should be pregnant right now, we should be so fucking happy...and we're not...I'm not.
Sid didn't seem all that fussed with our failure last year, and this year is no exception. He just seems so...unruffled. As if it doesn't really matter to him, as if it's not really something that he wants with all his heart, like I do. Not that I want to see him crushed, but I'd at least like him to express a bit of remorse over the fact that all our baby plans have once again blown up in our faces. Because it bothers me, a lot, and I don't understand how he can be so lackadaisical about it. I want him to at least acknowledge that, yes, it's fucked up that we're back here again, and I am once again hurting and bewildered, and I'm not crazy for feeling this way. Because I get damned tired of spilling my guts to him and having him just make fun of me. It's hard to remind myself that he's joking. I'm dead serious, and in a matter like this, I want a serious reply. When he's upset about something and starts berating himself for whatever, I don't echo his sentiments, I tell him what he needs to hear: that he's not crazy, it's okay to feel like shit. That he's not wrong.
I guess that's why I blog: because a fucking blog doesn't call me crazy. If I felt like I could tell Sid any of this stuff, I would. He's my husband, and I don't like keeping secrets. But in this, I just can't talk to him. I get so tired of being called crazy, or fat, or whatever the barb du jour is, when all I want is his support.