Tomorrow (Friday) marks a year since I found out I was pregnant. It has been the toughest year I’ve ever experienced and I still don’t feel like there’s light at the end of the tunnel. I naively told myself that making it to February would be a goal of sorts. That’s when the baby would have been born. So I got to February and managed to keep going. I think the anti-depressants helped. Actually, without them, January onwards could have been very different. I was at the point of not wanting to leave the house before I saw the doctor. As I didn’t plan beyond February, I thought I’d marked all the ‘milestones’: the loss, Christmas, due date. I seemed to have blotted everything else out of my mind. Something I’m pretty good at. So, tomorrow marks a year since I got the best surprise of my life. Next month marks a year since I received the worst news of my life, in just 8 words: ‘I am sorry but there is no heartbeat.’
I might ‘look OK’, but believe me when I say I’m really not. My heart hurts. I feel sick. My stomach is in knots. I want to cry and scream. I have this awful weight inside my chest that won’t go. Ironically I’ve gained weight, not a baby. I have lost my motivation to train, to look after myself. I’ve thrown myself into work as it’s a distraction. I don’t do well on my own as I just dwell and cry, and that’s not productive. I realise how crazy I sound, so you don’t need to tell me. My anxiety is through the roof. I’ve been told I need to relax by so many people, who I would quite like to punch in the face. I can’t relax. It’s not that easy. But thanks for your opinion on how I should live my life.
Every month I’m terrified in case I might be pregnant again, then disappointed when I’m not. It’s just a cruel cycle and I’ve had enough.
I don’t like to ‘keep going on’ about this, but I am struggling, and sometimes writing on here helps.