There’s a stereotype, isn’t there. The Bitter And Deranged Infertile Lady (Bitter McTwisted!). The one who cries at the sight of babies and wants to push pregnant ladies under buses, who owns too many cats and possibly a life-size doll in a hand-knitted layette.
Yes, well, anyway. That aitn’t me.
We’re not allowed pets in this rented flat, you see.
So, I went to this family wedding, and it was great. Really great. From the dear old git making a complete hash of the The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba on the church organ (H and I had the Queen of Sheba. On CD. Unmangled. Thank you), to the last soppy, silly, cute, hilarious dance. From the flower-girls skipping and prancing like ponies down the aisle to fending off the Drunk and Inappropriate uncle (there’s one at every wedding). H even got up and dragged me to the dance floor, an Event which last happened at some point shortly before the Bronze Age. It was splendid.
But I had, I just had to have, a Bitter McTwisted Moment. My Sister-in-Law has a grown-up daughter by her previous marriage, and this daughter is apparently a great example to me and a general encouragement to my hopefulness, apparently, because she had a miscarriage. And then went on to have three children in four years. So, umm, not exactly infertile at all, but that’s such a technicality, don’t you think? Anyway, baby number three is due any moment, is, in fact, a little overdue, so naturally SIL was all excited and had her mobile phone on the table infront of her throughout the wedding dinner and of course had to corner me and tell me how excited she was and how happy she was and how awkward three kids under four was going to be for her daughter (who, is, yes, younger than me, logically enough), (also, my heart freakin’ bleeds already), and so on and so on, and eventually I excused myself and went to find a deserted corridor to lurk in and a cold brick wall to press my forehead against. You-all know why.
H came to find me after a little while, and we hugged, and I went back to the party, and by that time the band was playing and conversation was no longer an unavoidable social duty.
Gah. I really hate myself for letting someone else’s happiness and excitement get to me like that. As if it’s anything to do with me. As if I need to let it in and play Compare and Contrast with my own fortunes.
Bitter McTwisted has been having all too many outings recently. For another example, I have another Internet site I hang out at – it is absolutely nothing to do with Infertility and my involvement with it predates my attempts on Citadel Baby by some years – and the people I’ve met through it are lovely and fantastic and we all share our lives and anecdotes and support each other and I have been avoiding the place for weeks, now, and I miss them and I am beating myself up about it regularly, and why? Because I feel so very uncomfortable there now. Because I am absolutely fucking miserable, and can’t share it there. Because there are pregnant women. Because there are people who hate babies and shit like that. Because there are family people whose families just turned up as and when. And because they have said things like ‘I’m sure it’ll all work out for you,’ and ‘you just need to be patient,’ and then gone straight back to complaining about how the fact they had one previous caesarian and then a second healthy pregnancy and birth means they are ‘rubbish’ at having children (um… two healthy babies in the same time-scale that I had surgery, two HSGs, three rounds of clomid, a miscarriage, more surgery, an infection, and now no longer respond to Clomid and am filling out IVF paper-work and SHE’S rubbish at having babies?). And because I have tried to talk about how miserable I feel there recently and been completely blanked, and I don’t know if people just can’t think of what to say, or don’t really know what I’m talking about because my troubles are not important enough for them to keep up with, or think I need to hush up and get over it already so are refusing to indulge me, or because my role is Funny Lady and I do not earn my existance there by being boring and miserable. And because I am skinned raw and have no patience or emotional elasticity left and need to be treated with kid gloves. And the longer I stay away, the harder it is for me to go back.
And I most certainly AM self-aware and intelligent enough to realise that it’s all nothing whatsoever to do with me. It’s not a competition, other people’s lives do not and cannot stop just because mine’s gone all crappy, their sorrows and joys are exactly and absolutely as hugely important as mine if not massively more so, and the reason I am not getting all the support I want is almost certainly because I am being a complete fucking wimp at asking for it.
But Bitter McTwisted is having a field-day and I can’t seem to rein her in just now.