I was cleaning my kitchen a few days ago. I cant remember the exact chain of thought that brought on this revelation, but suddenly I was moved to tears when it occured to me that this is not my fault. Any time during the past couple of years, if you had asked, I would have asserted that of course it wasnt my fault that I had miscarried so many times. That I was infertile. But secretly I was pretty sure that it was. I had somehow been careless with those pregnancies. Worried too much, and my infertility was due to a character flaw. Or not taking good enough care of my health, caused by my anxiety disorder. That women who can manage to bring a pregnancy to term are somehow superior and I inferior. That if I wasnt hoisting around my rather stout, 4 year old niece, or squating to dig my 12 lb Le Creuset dutch oven out of the bottom shelf of my cupboard, then I wouldnt have started bleeding either time. The embryos could have made a better attachment. If I could just have cultivated enough of that non chalant lightness that makes other women "relax" and sail through their pregnancies unharmed, and also allows them to become pregnant easily.
I suppose by feeling that I was to blame, I somehow was making it less sad. Its not tragic, if its your own damn fault. Being blameless almost makes me feel more vulnerable. It IS sad. it IS unfair. Terribly fucking unfair, and now I get to grieve it a little more proper.
6 hours ago