Not What I Meant

I have nothing to wake up for. No job, no other children, no husband or boyfriend...nothing. The anxiety of lying alone with my thoughts keeps me up later than I plan. And then I sleep later than I plan. No matter what time I finally drag myself from bed I spend the day physically exhausted. This is depression. I know. But I still hate my life right now in all its meaninglessness.

Last week, before the Prozac kicked in, I was telling my mom how badly I wanted to have another baby. And she started in on a lecture about how a baby doesn't solve anything, and how I'm not settled and I can't have a baby right now...as if I were a lonely, angsty teenager looking for someone to love her. I held a pen in my hand and I was a moment away from drawing on my other palm when I realized that what I really wanted to do was drive the tip of the pen deep into my skin. I yelled at her that I just wanted it. That didn't mean I was going to do it. Just like I didn't shove the pen through my hand.

There was one time since the procedure that NAWP and I had sex. I was already on birth control and he didn't finish. Still I was hoping I had somehow gotten pregnant, and I was a little more hopeful when I felt little cramps two weeks later. I've been through another month, started another pack of birth control pills, but since I haven't gotten my period yet or lost any of that softness around the back of my hips, I am still sort of hoping. I feel pretty ridiculous even writing that.

NAWP stopped finishing sometime back in March, I think. There was one weekend after we found out I was pregnant that we were still connecting sexually, romantically, but soon enough he completely withdrew. I would have to ask him for a kiss. With tongue? That was really hard. And of course none of that went over well. We would have sex once in a while but it was always for me. Which doesn't sound too terrible except actually it was. It was hard to believe he had impregnated me once. I asked him if he was afraid of hurting the baby. "No." He said he was "getting used to" my being the vessel for our child or something like that. He was "trying" to get back to a place where he was attracted to me. I have no idea how he was "trying" to do that. I gained nine pounds in 25 weeks of pregnancy, so there was nothing I could do physically myself. Not wanting sex was just another way he withheld emotion and a true connection. "Having sex" after you lose your baby is like one of those well-meaning but completely inappropriate comments people say when they hear your baby is dead. I try to remember if we ever "made love," but the realization that the answer is no is no more comfort than not making love at all.