I’m not sure what to do with this space anymore. There was a time when it helped me share my heart. It served as the catalyst in connecting me to so many incredible people. But, somewhere along the way … this summer it was … it started to be a place of reminded pain. It was as if my online journal just reminded me day in and day out that I had to work hard each day to be grateful for what I do have, not just focus on what I don’t. (Maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all …) But, still … I didn’t want to work so hard on reminding the world that Yes. I Am Still Infertile. It got old. (Good grief. It still is) And, it started to serve as this heavy obligation for others to check-in on me (convinced I was utterly depressed even when I wasn’t), worry about me, feel sorry for me, cry when they told me that they were pregnant (which left me consoling them over their good news … ??) … I’m sure it’s even scared a few readers away. Yet, I know it’s attracted many. Which is why I write today.
I needed a break from being so honest. Our story isn’t just ours, but it also is just that. Just ours. It’s this really weird thing. A battle I fight daily. I don’t want to be secretive about the journey we’re on because I know SO MANY OTHERS are on one so similar and if me sharing about my broken self allows someone else to feel not alone, well then it’s worth it. But yet … it’s my life. My body. My husband. Our relationship. Our pain. Our journey. It’s just ours. Not yours. But, it is yours. It’s totally yours … and the battle ensues.
I feel incredibly stuck in life right now. Not in a grander scale kind of way; in an everyday kind of way. I have a list of things I want to do to our house. I have 503 endeavors I’m dying to take. I have steps that need to be made to simplify our lives so that our time together is even more maximized. And, really … I just want to nest. In a hopeful sort of way. Yet, I feel just plain ol’ stuck. Like my list is in my head, but I can’t get my muscles to move. I’ve been thinking about this the past couple days and today I think I have maybe come up with the reason why.
It’s our story.
It’s messy and imperfect, filled with disappointments and missed connections. It’s wonderful and perfect, filled with love and butterflies within when we’re together. It’s filled with laughter and tears. Screaming and long hugs. It’s filled with contentment for what we have and an intense longing for what we do not.
It’s our story. It’s your story. It’s [y]our story.
Which is why I am writing now. I feel brave again. Not as brave as I once did, but brave enough to at least have gotten this far in this post. That should stand for something, right?
I’m asking for something. All of my vulnerable self. I need to know you’re there. That this is still a journal that speaks back. I understand why many of you are secret readers. I am mostly a secret reader to every single blog I follow. But, today I need to know you’re there. You read and care and relate. Even if you leave your comment anonymously I will feel just as loved.
Thanks for tending to my sorry, sappy self.