Infertility has beaten me up more than anything else, ever, but most of the time, by the grace of God, I can keep my head up. My life is still full of blessings, and most of the time I'm thinking of how good life is, rather than of how hard infertility is.
Crying jags are not entirely uncommon, but I can save them for the privacy of my home, for the refuge of my husband's arms. The occasional off-hand comment makes tears fill my eyes abruptly, so I have to blink hard to keep them from spilling, and can't speak for a while for fear of bursting into tears. But I think that's hardly noticeable.
Things set me off rarely. Seeing a happy little family hardly ever upsets me; I'm generally happy that they have a baby rather than sad that I don't. When people ask me if we are "going to have kids" I'm momentarily confused, and frustrated by the implication (that you can simply decide to have kids, and then have them) but I can say "we hope so" without getting upset.
But one time at rehearsal a few months ago, when the cast was goofing off, my director reminded us jokingly that we could stay there all night, but he had kids to get home to, and I was suddenly so overwhelmingly sad that I wanted to lie down and become one with the floor, if that could actually work. And a few weeks ago I mentioned to the secretary at work that I'd really like to have kids and she told me not to do that, because I have a nice body and she wouldn't want me to ruin it. I don't normally speak sharply to anyone who's not family, but when I told her "Don't ever say anything like that to me again. Ever." I was surprised at the depth and force in my voice, the shock and anger that rose to the surface so easily. (I think she felt horrible, by the way, and after she found out about our infertility she apologized very nicely.)
Most of the time I'm okay. But once a month, and it doesn't seem to be cycle-related, I get fragile. Little things, things that would normally not bother me, hit and stick painfully. For no reason at all I am suddenly sensitive to everything. The most innocent song lyrics start the tears streaming down my face, driving home from work seems an insurmountably wearying task, and the only thing I want to do is crawl in bed with a book and a cup of strong tea. Being home helps, being with my darling husband helps, but I can still feel my heart sinking toward my stomach, my shoulders curling in to protect me from that crazy, hard world out there.
In a day or two I'll be better, shoulders squared to face whatever comes my way, excited about our future family and ready to work on building it. I'll be philosophical about the difficulties, thankful that it's true that good can be brought out of suffering, and looking for that good. But today, today the broken edges of these little dreams of mine are sharp, and I am raw. In this whole wild journey, it is the todays, the lost days, that are the hardest.