It has been a while since I have had the courage and the patience to write anything down. Last year was probably one of the most difficult years in my life. I struggled physically, but mostly I struggled mentally.
I’m actually very good at hiding my feelings. Not many people know this about me, but I can be an absolute mess inside, but you wouldn’t be able to tell. I’m very good at ignoring how I feel deep down and maintaining a face to the world. Last year, I was nothing but completely devastated, broken, burned out, empty inside, alone, and feeling absolutely no support from anybody. Mostly just living in a big black box of pain.
It all started with a desire to have another child. We have tried for some time. It didn’t really work for almost a year. It could’ve been a stress. It could’ve been from both working full-time, raising a toddler in a different country with zero support village or people around us. It could’ve been all of that. But it was not only that.
I’ve also started having a strange pain, and despite the protestation of my partner that it should be fun to have a child and it can take a while, I decided to see the doctor and asked for a specialist referral. I didn’t like the pain I was feeling; I thought it was strange. I had an ultrasound done privately that confirmed that there was nothing visible, but I was convinced that something was wrong. I waited for my appointment at an academic hospital here, in the Netherlands. All of our test analyses were good, so suddenly we were faced with the secondary infertility diagnosis.
I probably will never be able to put into words how it feels to see your friends growing their families, how it feels hearing your coworkers announce that they’re having babies when there is nothing more that you want than to have a child. And yet, all you see is a negative pregnancy test month after month. You get obsessed with tracking. You track your cycle, your temperature, and your nutrition. You go insane. You test too early. You test too late. You try not to test, but this is the only thing that your brain can think about.
And also, you cannot really open up to anybody. When I tried to tell my partner about how I feel, his first answer was that it’s supposed to be fun to make a baby. But you’re not having fun. You feel devastated that it doesn’t work. You feel heartbroken. This is not fun at all. I am not very close with my parents on these topics, so I never really told them what I was going through. I do not have very close friends. I turned to reading different blogs and online resources, videos where people went through the same thing, because that was the only way that I felt like I could pull through. I cried myself to sleep. I cried in the morning. I cried in the evening. I felt like I was living in a big black box of pain that was eating my soul. I couldn’t get up from bed some days. I had to convince myself to keep on living.
The pain was immense, but what was also immense was the isolation that you feel when you go through it. I realized, looking back, that maybe I didn’t open up enough, but there was also nobody who asked me how I was really doing. There was nobody who showed up for me besides myself. There was nobody who could pick me up when I was broken. That was a very painful realization. All I saw was the black walls of a black box. I carried on with my life, but it was withering in front of my eyes.
I discovered that the reason for my infertility was endometriosis. All that physical pain that I felt for years, like vomiting from your period when you’re 15 or racing to take a pill before your period starts because otherwise you’ll be immobile for a day. It all started making sense. I got endometriosis removed, and eventually I was able to get pregnant, but when we went to see the baby on the ultrasound, it was dead. There was no longer a heartbeat. I don’t remember what the doctor said. I don’t remember anything. I just remember walking out of that office and not even thinking. I took a day off and just bawled in bed. I cried my eyes until they were blue and then I just accepted that it is what it is.
After the miscarriage happened, I felt acceptance. I felt peace with myself. I got off my own back. I got off all the expectations that were placed on me. I had so much of it that I could no longer carry that forward. I felt serene because serenity was what I deserved.
Looking forward, it all did work out, but what I wanted to write is that if you feel like you live in the black box of pain, if you have nobody to lean on, and if nobody shows up for you, it does not matter. You show up for yourself, and you advocate for yourself. You fight. It will be hard, it will be painful. It will be devastating. But ultimately, I want you to know that you will make it through even if you have to do it alone.
March is the endometriosis awareness month. Let’s make sure we educate outselves about it.
Kat's Thoughts 