Due in March

“I’m due in March,” I heard a mom say to another mom. I had noticed her belly earlier and wondered how far along she was; I would’ve guessed closer to five or six months.

“I was supposed to be due in March,” I said to the teacher, who was standing close to me. I didn’t really expect comfort, or even a verbal response at all. Maybe just the soft pity smile I usually get, or a solemn nod. I didn’t want to say it at all, but keeping it in felt even harder..

“I know! She’s small,” our teacher smiled. Clearly mishearing me.

The rest of the class was a bit of a bummer. I tried to stay amped up as the kiddos ran around because I knew my kid would pick up on the vibe shift. But it’s hard sometimes.

This isn’t a blog for infertility struggles. And yet… isn’t it? It’s my blog. These are my thoughts. And as much as I’ve tried to focus on love and sex since it’s kind of my brand… how can my feelings about love and sex not be marred by infertility?

The woman that took my unborn child from me will never understand the pain. It took so many years, so many tens of thousands of dollars, so many surgeries and pills and needles. And her lawyer is now trying to blame me for the loss. Asking if I’ve had miscarriages in the past… NO! I haven’t! That’s the whole fucking point of the fertility clinic you evil lying wicked witch.

Why? Why can’t I just be left alone? That’s literally what I’ve been begging for for over two years. Any good mother would be so incredibly guilt ridden by hurting an innocent child. Which is why it’s not a surprise to me that’s she not, I guess. Someone willing to fuck over their own child ten times over doesn’t give a fuck about mine.

For the last 17 months and counting I have been terrified for the safety of my child. I’ve had nightmares about her killing my kid. And apparently, according to everyone else, because I use humor as a coping mechanism and deflect from my real feelings, my real feelings don’t exist.

Sorry that I don’t want to get on here and tell her how afraid I am. That I don’t want to sound like a fucking pussy. But apparently loudly being a victim is the only way to do it. I can’t just list all the fucking crimes she’s committed against me, I have to do it through tears. So fine. Here they are. Here are all the fucking tears.

Let me be a fucking circus act and dance for people that have never lost a child. That can’t understand that pain.

All I am asking is to be left alone. For 26 months and counting I’ve been asking to be left alone. It’s weird and creepy and evil. Leave me alone.