Perfect failure

Sometimes life just sucks. And it's not life exactly, it's just my life. Or my non-life. I'm sitting here, in pain, waiting for the backaches and cramping to give birth to the bloody end of this failed cycle. This, my 48th cycle, was another perfect failure.

I know iuis aren't fabulous as far as success rates go, but I don't really have a choice right now. We made the best decision we could and it's in the hands of a doctor who wants us to fail on his protocol a few times before we can move on. I wanted a lap. Don't tell me to be the boss because it does not always work. Sometimes you just get labeled a problem patient and you end up in limbo for over a year. Sometimes you have to suck it up and work it from within the system. I'm trying anyway. I don't really want advice. I don't need help. Not with this anyway. As much as I'm not liking the way things are going, it was still the right decision.

What I need is to succeed at something. I'm tired of feeling like a failure. I'm tired of shooting up, bloating up, and the second I can wear my non-stretch jeans again, the backaches start and we can relive the process all over again. This afternoon I did a shot of vodka because I could feel the ache coming on. P looked at me like I was nuts. I was crazy; it should have been tequila. Better than tylenol. Waiting sucks. The inevitable sucks too, but the waiting for it, especially when there's pain, is just emotional misery.

We went to B&N and walked around. I felt like a zombie. I love books, but the store was driving me mad. I saw strollers and I heard children laughing and talking and crying and I felt like there was a whole other world there that I'm just allowed to look at but not be a part of. I walked past the pregnancy section without slowing, but I knew it was there. I know there are books about fertility and endometriosis and pcos in the health section, but I didn't want to look. What can a book tell me? Nothing. A book doesn't know why this is so hard. Every section I walked by made my heart hurt a little. My glazed-over eyes welled up with tears, but my zombie-self didn't let them out. I wandered around though the history and biography sections where I can usually get lost, but I didn't really stop. When I realized that I'd been staring at a table of boxed calendars, I found P and told him that I wanted ice cream. "Now?" "Yes, NOW." "Are you sure you don't want a chocolate cupcake?" "No, ice cream." "Ok," he said, seeing I can only imagine what on my face, "let's go." And we did.

Did it help? I don't know. I'm sitting here writing this wondering how I got here. How did things turn out this way for me, for us? How did I become this person? I don't believe in fate, karma, or divine intervention for things like this. It's just happening and there is no reason. But it's still happening and not being able to explain it in a five paragraph essay is very frustrating. I didn't want puppies. I wanted babies. I never wanted to be a doctor, lawyer or indian chief. I didn't want to be a butcher, baker, or candlestick maker either (and I'm not drunk, by the way.) All I ever really wanted was to be a wife and mother. I feel like I'm failing at the one and the other is so unimaginable by now I can't even get there in my mind anymore.