I Thought That You'd Be Here By Now (XOXOconfessions Honorable Mention)

My Confession

I'm not going to feel sorry for myself.

Three and a half years of medication, shots, and heartbreak and these eight words are the only thing I find myself reciting over and over again.

It all began in 2012. I was newly and happily married to my high school sweetheart, whom I literally know like the back of my hand. I'm talking the finish each others sentences and accumulate one another's mannerisms kind of love.

It wasn't always easy between the two of us but I knew, even at fourteen years old, that I was going to marry this man. Around the same time, I had visited a few doctors concerning my health. It was never really worrisome, mom and I just felt the need to take precautions. We've always been that way. Superstitious.

I still to this day rely on my intuition. Whatever is in my gut, that's what I stick to. It's kept me out of harms way so far and considering I managed to, like a rock skipping over water, bypass the petty girls at school and dodge getting into any sort of trouble, I think it's read me well. Mostly though, I thank my lucky stars every single day for the man in my life.

My husband.

He still manages to make my heart heat up in a flare when I look at him. He makes me laugh until my stomach hurts and he still, even though it drives me crazy, twists his legs like a pretzel around me while we lie in bed next to each other at night. I've always known it was going to be a forever kind of thing and I knew we would always stand hand in hand, ready to take on the world. We were prepared for anything.

Or so we thought.

We were married in May on the most beautiful day. The skies were the bluest I ever remember them being and the sun was shining bright for us. I thought I was at my happiest that day, but boy was I wrong. Little did I know that we would face much brighter days but with that came the gloomy ones. Dark clouds hovered over us, or at least they did for me. My husband, man he's a fighter.

Let me get to the point here.

As far back as I can remember I've been an aunt and if I took pride in just one thing, it was that I was a damn good one. I couldn't wait to marry the love of my life and move on to start a family. I had one part of my bucket list checked off, it was the second that I was worried about.

That intuition I was telling you about, well it told me all through my teenage years that I would struggle to become a mother. It was always right there in the pit of my stomach and I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to face the facts.

After many doctors visits and unanswered questions, we knew it was time to finally make the call to a specialist. I still remember the room being painted a stark white and the mirrored picture frame that sat on his desk with his family sitting behind the glass. I still remember my stomach fluttering as I crossed one leg over the other and watched as my foot couldn't hold still.

The doctor gave us hope that day. I left the clinic with a smile on my face and honestly, it was the first time in years that I felt optimistic. That stayed with me for as long as it could.

Onto the point here.

My confession lies just beneath the surface of my being. It's not something I'd ever come out and say and although I act as if everything is okay, I'm much better at expressing myself through written words. Vocally, I can't mention it without the want or need to cry.

Infertility. To some it means being incapable to have children, while to others, it's so much deeper than that.

With each passing day when I would look in the mirror, I would see the light dim just a little more. And on a day particularly like today when I heard the news that once again we aren't pregnant, I stood there staring at the woman looking back at me with tear filled eyes and I said, "I'm not going to feel sorry for myself."

My confession is that some time ago, I let myself down. I did feel sorry for myself. I let the bitterness that lied awake inside me show her presence and I thought that I hated the people around me who were able to have what I couldn't, what we couldn't. I blamed everyone else for something that they had no control over.

I tried convincing my friends and my family that I was fine, that I was at peace with this trial and that I left it in gods hands. I lied. I lied until about six months ago when the news of a friends pregnancy shook my entirety. It woke me up and I was able to be happy for her. Genuinely happy for her without an ounce of bitterness or sorrow.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel it every now and again. That with each stranger that passes by with a belly out to here, that I didn't wish it was me. I do. Every damn time I wish that it was me but now I know that I'm at peace with it, that I have a husband's shoulder to cry on when the days get really tough. And on the good days, I can smile and rub my friends bellies and tell them I do it to send 'baby juju' our way.

But ultimately what has kept me holding on is that when we do get our babes, it'll be the best damn day of our lives.