I have been trying to think of how to explain what I feel, how empty I am. It took a long while and then one day, lying awake, it came to me.
I want you to imagine how much time you spend each day thinking about your child. I want all parents to consider how many times throughout the day they are focused completely on their children. I want you all to think about how much you love them. I want you to imagine how much space they occupy in your mind and in your heart.
That is the size of the hole in my life.
I am a woman, nearly forty, who has just had my second miscarriage. I have no children.
These seem to me to be the only pertinent facts of my life. My childlessness is my major preoccupation. Each morning I wake, still not pregnant. Each night it is my emptiness with which I curl up to sleep.
My time is spent calculating the mathematics of envy. I resent everyone. There is no algorithm where I do not come up wanting. So, I live in a world where everyone I see seems to have it better than I do. A teen mom with twin newborns? Hate her. Even another woman, one who already has children, who also had a miscarriage? She got greedy. I practice the equation of self-pity.
Plug in the only pertinent factors: Nearly forty. Two miscarriages. Zero children.
I hear moms complain of lack of sleep, diapers and exasperation. I see their posts on Facebook about walls covered in pen, broken crockery, too many viewings of Frozen.
I crave these things in an almost physical way. I weep in my car for all my sleep, all my freedom.
Everything I do, everything I am, everything I have accomplished, it all seems so small. My life shrinks in magnitude beside the life I cannot seem to have.
Proportionately, I have become less myself.
I no longer write my blog. I have gone back to smoking. I have lost my sense of humor.
Most significantly, I no longer want the company of my friends. I dodge their calls as though they were creditors. I avoid their well-meaning questions. What do I have to say to these people any more? I am too preoccupied by the differences between us. I have become a concrete representation of a past they have left behind. I am that from which they have already moved on. I am less than a memory.
I am a skin without a snake.