I’m Probably Barren

I’ve been trying to get pregnant for almost three years. At first I told everyone, certain that it would happen any moment and unconcerned with the questions that might follow if it didn’t. Now, I don’t talk about it as much, at least not with new people.

Since I’m in my 30s now, the inevitable questions do come though. When confronted with a (rather rude) “So, when are you having kids?” I generally purse my lips, go all dead-eyed and state plainly: “We’ve been trying. It’s not going well.”

If pressed for details, I have no problem telling some nosy asshole that we’ve been trying for years. I like the look of uncomfortable concern when I tell them that there’s nothing I want more than to be a mother but my body is being uncooperative.

Nothing makes me want to strangle someone with my purse handles quite like the condescending pity that comes after that, though. Usually accompanied with a sighed “You’re so strong to keep trying. That must be so hard.”

I’m not strong.

Not by any measure of it. I’m a wreck every month this doesn’t work. I blame myself for all manner of sins: I shouldn’t have waited so long, I shouldn’t have taken so many kinds of birth control, I shouldn’t have terminated a pregnancy at 19, I shouldn’t have said I never wanted kids, I shouldn’t have made fun of other people for wanting kids (and I really shouldn’t have; that was super shitty of me), I should have been less selfish in my 20s, more ready to be a mother then. The list goes on.

I beat the shit out of myself every month. I make myself crazy wondering if this will ever happen. If I even deserve it. If all this struggle is worth it. I swing wildly back and forth between “Fine, fuck it, I’m barren. Let’s just move on and maybe I’ll pick up an expensive drug habit or get into some kind of super dangerous hobby” and “NO. I WILL CONQUER MY OWN BODY. UTERUS YOU WILL DO WHAT I COMMAND IMMEDIATELY.”

I bore the shit out of my friends and family with an endless stream of consciousness monologues about what I’m doing to try to get pregnant and what I’ll do next if this doesn’t work. They’ve weathered what can only be described as Grown Woman Temper Tantrums brought on by a combination of fertility medication and frustration. They’re sudden and explosive, like watching a human being turn into a tornado.

I am petty and jealous of my friends and family members who can seemingly get knocked up just by thinking about it. I’ve seen friends get pregnant, give birth and get pregnant a second time just since I started trying to conceive my first child. I don’t share their joy or excitement when they post sonograms or bump pictures. I seethe with silent rage. I’ve been “sick” or “busy with work” for damn near every baby shower I’ve been invited to for the last three years. I’ve become a terrible, selfish friend unable to find joy in other people’s good news. I am completely uninterested in their children and have no desire to be around them once they’re born. I used to at least pretend I was a decent and caring individual. I would visit right after the spawn was born and bring hand-knit gifts. Now I don’t even bother with so much as a Target gift card. I live somewhere between apathy and open contempt for infants and their fertile parents.

I envision the violent, messy murders of anyone who tells me to “pray on it” or “good things come to those who wait.” I HAVE waited. Hell, I’ve even prayed on it although I’m not spiritual. I’m not sure how long exactly I’m expected to wait patiently for my body to do this one thing I’ve asked it to do. I do not make many demands of this mortal vessel, just this one little thing.

And I cry.

I cry so much.

I cry so much that I get annoyed with myself even while I’m crying.

I cry at diaper commercials and when a TV character ends up pregnant. (Thus fucking up not only the plot but also my ability to keep watching the show. Thanks Juliette Barnes on “Nashville”.)

I get mad. I get frustrated. I pout when my husband doesn’t want to put out on demand because obviously he’s intentionally ruining our chances of getting pregnant this month out of spite. Spite for what, I have no idea. I don’t care how tired or sick he is, or how incredibly unsexy being expected to perform on demand is. I still pout. I am a sullen brat.

I am a mess.

I wonder what is wrong with me that I can’t get pregnant. Or worse, stay pregnant.

I hate myself for how much I think about it. I hate myself for how tied to this idea that motherhood will somehow magically complete me I’ve become. I feel like a traitor to my feminist ideology every time I hear myself think, “You’re broken. Your body is failing you. You’re a failure to the female species.” I can’t help that I think that, but I know, logically that it’s gross, biological essentialism at its worst and it squicks me out that despite all my high minded book learnin’, I still default to thinking that my only function as a woman is to produce offspring.

I feel gross.

I don’t exactly remember when I turned into the sort of person who logged every bit of goo that came out of her body but now I am. I have apps (more than one!) that I use to log my cervical fluid consistency, quantity and color. Daily! I do that daily! I have peed on my own hands trying to take pregnancy and ovulation tests more times than I can count. I’ve set little cups of my pee on the floor between my ankles in a public restroom at work, tried to muffle the sound of the plastic coming off the ovulation test so my co-worker, or on one exceptionally uncomfortable afternoon, the managing partner of my agency, doesn’t hear it. Do they think I have snacks in the stall or will they think I’m having a pregnancy scare at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday, like some high school junior who can’t wait until she gets home to test.

Worse yet, despite all this fuckery to try to get knocked up, I’m also terrified of it actually happening!

I’m scared of giving birth. Petrified actually. I worry that my fear of giving birth is somehow magically keeping me from getting pregnant. Like my body knows I’m not strong enough to handle actually pushing a kid out of my rather petite vagina.

I’m worried I’ll be a terrible mother. Maybe that’s why I can’t get pregnant. Maybe my uterus knows how bad I’d be at the job. I never learned to share my frustration without screaming. I’m worried I’m too selfish to get up in the middle of the night to care for an infant. I’m worried that I won’t care enough about shitty finger paintings or junior high band recitals or whatever bullshit science project I’m supposed to buy supplies for.

I’m scared. I’m scared literally all of the time. I’m scared I won’t get pregnant, I’m scared I will. I’m scared I won’t qualify to be an adoptive parent if it comes to that because of my long and well-documented history with mental illness, despite being well-managed now. I’m scared that I can’t afford fertility treatments or adoption fees. I’m scared that at some point I’ll just have to give up and these years of heartache, pain, loss and determination will be for nothing.

I’m scared I won’t know what to do with myself if I am never able to become a mother. I’m even more scared that I’ll ruin my marriage because of it. I’m worried that I will somehow end up being able to be a mother and I’ll fuck it up.

I’m not sure I’m strong enough to keep trying, I’m not sure I’m brave enough to succeed and I’m terrified that I will fail and it will destroy me.