A hello, and an explanation.

I.

The cure for anything is saltwater: sweat, tears or the sea. Isak Dinesen


II.

Sorry I've been gone. I'm back now.

I had to take a break for a while, and when I say, "I had to", I mean I had no choice because I couldn't stop crying for two months.

Three months ago, on a Saturday morning, my sister-in-law called to tell Mike he was going to be an uncle.

I was sprawled out my bed, lapping up the morning sun, when he shared the news with me.

First reaction: "Oh YAY".
Second reaction: cue waterworks 2012.

I don't think I've gone from zero to sixty/fine to weeping since I was six. I fled to the shower.

I'm pretty sure I peed out of my eyes for a good hour. I cried, brokenhearted, like a small child. As I lathered and rinsed and lathered again, I begged:

"Me too, God--please, me too.

You know this is what I want more than anything right now. Please, God. PLEASE."

I begged, knowing the answer was still no.

I know I should've been happy for my sister-in-law, but at that moment, I felt utterly disappointed it wasn't us sharing that news with her.

I felt insanely jealous.
I felt angry.
I felt betrayed by God.
I felt really, really sad.
I felt barren.

You may be thinking, GAWD, you are dramatic, which would be a true statement. I can be dramatic. It's not like hers was the first pregnancy I'd heard about since Mike and I started trying. Everyone around me seemed to be exploding with children, and I was genuinely happy for them--people who were trying, people who just happened to touch elbows and got pregnant unexpectedly, people who'd been trying for a while and were finally successful.

But I fell apart that day in the shower. I kept thinking, What makes us so different from them? Am I not ready? It's because you know I've got a lot of issues to work out before you entrust me with a child, isn't it? 

I sat in my bathtub and tried to justify my extra long shower by shaving my legs, which was a terrible idea. I couldn't see through the wall of water and ended up cutting the back of my knees. When Mike got off the phone, he was surprised to find me swollen and pruney, drowning in sorrow and salt water. I didn't want to get out of the tub, so he sat outside of it and asked me why I was so sad.

I didn't want to tell him how my heart really felt. I knew it would confirm that I am a terrible, self-centered person, but I also knew I needed to be honest.

So I told him everything I'd said to God.

And because he is my best friend, he just sat with me and listened. He told me he was disappointed, too, and that he was sorry--sorry I was disappointed, sorry we weren't pregnant, sorry I was so, so sad. We clung to each other, or rather, I clung desperately to him--naked in every sense of the word--and cried all over him.

I wish I could tell you that I was fine after that epic cry, that my heart was able to rejoice every time I saw my sister-in-law after that.

I could tell you that, but then I'd be lying.

Instead, I slipped into a season of sadness (a.k.a. S.O.S.). That's my dramatic way of describing the two-month-period when I ate, slept, and cried almost every day. It wasn't like I woke up weeping every day, though some days, that did happen. I felt full of sadness, and being that full of sadness meant there was little to no room for any other emotion. Some days, I woke up and just wanted to go back to sleep. On those days, the sadness felt thick, hot and stifling, like being in a steam room with a bunch of old, naked women. Other days weren't so bad. I was sad, but the sadness felt thin, wispy and damp. I felt lost, but sure-footed enough to keep walking ahead even though I couldn't see an inch in front of me.

I'm a huge believer in giving myself room to feel emotions. I'm sure this sounds strange and overly touchy-feely, but I don't like to rush through them. If I'm sad, then damn it, I want to feel sad. I want to know what it tastes like, what it smells like--I want to become familiar with it, so I can more clearly appreciate what it feels like to be not-sad. Unfortunately, having a full-time job means that I can't wallow in a pool of sadness for weeks on end. I did my best to comfort myself with food and drink. I ate a lot of pie and cheese and chocolate, though not all together. That would taste bad. I didn't even bother to put the pieces of pie on plates. I just ate them right out of the tin. That little act of rebellion made me feel a tiny bit better.

I tried to channel my sadness into writing or reading--activities that seemed more constructive and cathartic--but found that when I sat down to write or read, I just couldn't. I couldn't feel or focus. I couldn't string more than a few words together. I couldn't read more than a few lines. It was exhausting and annoying.

So instead, I watched a LOT of television, ate a lot of pie, and tried my best to keep moving.

I'm grateful that the S.O.S. eventually came to an end. I don't have a secret formula that helped. I think I was just all cried out (does anyone else think of that song by Allure featuring 112?). God also took pity on me and provided me with some perspective and other reasons to celebrate--a dear friend's joyous engagement, another friend's progress in their adoption journey, more new babies. With each day, I noticed that there was more joy floating around in my body than sadness.

Finally.

III.

For some reason, I felt like I couldn't/shouldn't talk about my real feelings about my no-baby situation. Did someone (Emily Post? Miss Manners? Dear Abby?) say it's not okay to talk about how sad you feel when someone else tells you she's pregnant? I'm not sure, but I felt guilty for feeling sad, as though I'm ONLY allowed to feel unselfish joy for everyone else's very fertile wombs.

Is that true though?

I can feel joy and sorrow in the same breath. Both emotions can exist in my body at the same time. If that's true for me, it must be true for others, right?

I'm going to assume the answer is yes--at least for one other person. If that's true, why aren't we more open and honest about our feelings of sadness and disappointment? Why can we talk about being disappointed about not getting our dream job but not about wanting to be dating/engaged/married/pregnant/[insert stage of life]?

The first time someone asked about how I was doing post-S.O.S., I remember thinking, I have a choice: provide a decent, polite, easy-to-digest answer, or be honest.

I'm not good at lying, so I chose to be honest.

I'm glad I did. So many friends shared their own stories of disappointment or regret. Others who didn't have their own stories shared other people's stories. Almost everyone just said, "I'm sorry. That's really sh*tty."

My sentiments exactly.

IV.

I had to give myself space to write about the S.O.S. I wanted to be honest, but I didn't want to hurt anyone--namely my family. I definitely didn't want to write anything I would regret. Time has helped. So have food and booze. Sometimes I still feel sad when my sister-in-law announces another mommy milestone, but I don't cry anymore. I'm mostly happy now and am looking forward to meeting my niece.

I'm still not pregnant. In fact, since my S.O.S., I've survived even more life: not-good news about my womb, a sad goodbye, a death, and in the midst of all that, graduations, bridal showers and more weddings.

But more on all that later.

Sorry I was gone so long. I'm back now.