Infertility

The words have been swimming in my brain and I knew to write my story would be to acknowledge the hurt. I am drowning. The tears just flow and I can't help myself. Small fits of rage punctuated by tears that appear as little dots on a page. And still I can't help myself. I let the tears flow. Everything is at the surface and raw. I used to live for moments like this, where the facade was removed and I was real. Now I gasp for breath at my reality. I don't know how to live with this and I think the harder part is I don't want to. I suppose I shouldn't be shocked. I am 42 years old. I just don't feel it. I thought I could do anything I set out to do. I believed my body wouldn't betray me. I believed in my own will. I wanted to believe that all the decisions I have made my entire life would not lead to regret. There are no "do-overs" and I see myself now as having truly fucked up my opportunity to have the one thing I have always wanted, family. I have been diagnosed as being too old. The words sting. I waited and I waited and I waited for the "right" time and now the time is gone. I thought I got to choose. How did this choice get taken away from me. Why didn't I get my notice before expiration? Wasn't someone supposed to warn me that in this case if you don't use it, you really do lose it. And now it's gone. All my fantasies of family gone. Sure, I still have the one I was born into that rejected me from day one. The one that reminded me of all their regret. And even more now, I don't understand. And in my head, they have never counted. I wanted a family of my own. I wanted that love to give. And it's just gone. This is my diary I tell myself. Where else can I go with all this? Years and years of trying only to be reminded of chronology. I feel so broken and the reality is I am. Dreams of family gone with one diagnosis. And there is nothing I can do to fix this. The girl with the perfect grades, the straight teeth, the clean home with everything in place and this. This tarnish on my record, this black mark next to my name, this blemish. Fuck that, it's more than a blemish. A blemish goes away. I still can't breath. I have been crying for days. And the letter from the doctor sits here reminding me that the purpose I believed I had does not exist.