We Shouldn't Talk About That

We Shouldn't Talk About That

It's been three months (well, just short of it) since I've published here. Because a lot - and I mean A LOT - has changed, including me. The messages I've been giving and receiving about who I am and where I'm headed have been reduced to I don't know. I don't even know if I like who I'm presenting myself to be.

Welcome to the second identity crisis I've had in the last decade. The first, after my first trauma. The second, after finding out the needles and appointments and hormones and tears and fears and prayers and faith and loneliness were all worth the fight:

We are pregnant. 

I don't know many people who talk about the existential crisis that comes after finding out you're pregnant. I'm not sure people outside of infertility truly understand this, either. One second you think you'll never be pregnant and you prepare your heart for that truth, but the next you remember positivity will help you get further so you believe, and affirm, and celebrate and hope. Then the clinic calls you with a BFP and you can't hear anything but the words "Congratulations, you're pregnant" on a loop in your brain, everything else foggy and dim. Hope won. 

Holy shit, is this really happening?

Before you've had time to celebrate a new set of worries creeps in. You think about the women who've made it this far and then seen nothing on their first scans. "There's no heartbeat" the three words you prepare for and then prepare against. Maybe it won't hurt so bad after everything I've been through. You think you'll lose the babies because it can't really have happened, right? It can't really be your time. 

But who can you share those fears with? Most of the people you talk to about your journey are still hoping and wishing and praying for what you've just been given, and you're the asshole who can't even celebrate it because you're too terrified that being vulnerable and and letting love win - just this once - means you'll be crushed by it. 

All of this, of course, ironic because you have always said and known that taking care of yourself and sharing your story are two effective tools of healing the things most of us hide within ourselves. In the very moment you could have a difficult, needed conversation, you back away and just try to make it to the next appointment without losing your shit.

So here we are, almost 18 weeks pregnant (tomorrow), and I'm having a hard time celebrating because it still doesn't feel real and I'm feeling sorry for myself because - dammit, Lindsay - you haven't forgotten what it's like to want this. 

I won't take too much of your time with this reintroduction post. I have a ton to say and I hope to do it in an upcoming series that will shed some light on things we don't talk about, things I need to accept and move away from, and things we can all do to help people transition to the next leg of their infertility journey, with or without a pregnancy. 

I'm sorry I haven't been here with you. I really have missed this space. 

I've been spending a lot of time with Brene Brown again, listening to The Gifts of Imperfection and The Power of Vulnerability on Audible. 

It feels good to be back, even though I know there will be a lot of work to do. 

Hang with me, will you?

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