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[moanbrooklyn]

:: 𝐀 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧 ::

 *ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵗʳⁱᵍᵍᵉʳⁱⁿᵍ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ

You want another statistic? Around ten out of a hundred women have trouble getting or staying pregnant. That’s about 6.1 million women in the United States. At the age of 30, the chances of getting pregnant is 20%. And that’s for a fertile woman. Most women can’t wait to be mothers. They say women are born with nurturing instincts; some even believe our sole purpose on this earth is to reproduce. I haven’t wanted to be a mother for a little over a decade now. Actually, I never wanted to experience motherhood. I didn’t want the chance of becoming what my mother was to me. Though I could never inflict the amount of pain she did. I could never willingly starve a small child, blame my alcoholism on a child’s existence or leave emotional and physical scars on a child’s body. I could never be my mother and I’d do my damnedest to make sure of that. Then I turned seventeen. Only four years after running away and being on my own. I thought I met the love of my life. Hell, don’t we all think that at that age? But as soon as I got pregnant, he disappeared. Not a trace. At that point, I didn’t think I could emotionally handle terminating the pregnancy. I carried him to full term, but gave him up to a family who had the ability to give him a great life. A closed adoption. I didn’t want him to have any trace of me. There is no feeling like having your newborn baby taken away from you after only twenty-four hours. I do not regret that decision. I had to heal alone, I couldn’t parent alone. Mended my own wounds and emotional pain. That is one thing I’ll give my mother credit for; my strength. The neglect of my little sister and I forced me to stay strong. To grow up at a young age and take care of Ryeloh. Maybe that’s why I didn’t believe motherhood was for me. I haven’t wanted that for me until this year. Twenty-nine years old and I was finally ready to take on being an actual mom. My body had other plans. When conceiving meant the most to me, I couldn’t even achieve that. I never felt like such a failure. I not only failed myself, but my marriage. It’s something that weighs heavily on my heart. That heart-sinking feeling you get when you come back to check a pregnancy test and it’s the fourth negative you’ve gotten in about seven weeks? It’s a lingering type of pain. Like a wound that never fully heals. Now I know Matthew didn’t file for divorce because I couldn’t give him a family, but I do think it put a strain on our relationship that he felt like he couldn’t fix. I’ve only been to that one therapy session and it’s all I needed. I’m not the same broken person I was two weeks ago. I’ve grieved my divorce and now I have to grieve the fact that I’ll never be a mother. “You’ve developed a disorder called Endometriosis. Unfortunately, it’s what’s causing your infertility.” Anything else the doctor said went in one ear and out the other. I’ve heard of Endometriosis before, but I didn’t know it could play a factor in fertility. I was sent home with articles on the disorder, a prescription for the pelvic pain I originally came in for and options I have if I wanted to try and conceive. This didn’t feel real. How was I able to accidentally get pregnant as a teenager, but now it’s nearly impossible? This storm doesn’t seem to be ending any time soon. I’m stuck in a fucking hurricane. This hurricane called life. I’m so sick of crying in my car, but I’ve become really good at driving with tears streaming down my face. It’s just one thing after another and I don’t see a break coming my way anytime soon. Apparently the life I wanted is not the life I’m meant to have. I’ve gotten kind of used to this feeling of failure. This overwhelming wave of helplessness. It was exhausting. I felt mentally and physically drained. Do you ever zone-out when you drive? Like you have no fucking idea how you even got home? It’s amazing how our brain works when we get used to a routine. It’s like auto-pilot. That’s what I was in. Auto-pilot mode. When I feel myself shutting down, I can’t remember anything that happens afterwards. I don’t remember walking through my front door. No recollection of how I ended up in my porcelain bathtub with a blade in my hand. This is how I’d solve my problems years ago. There were a few ways I’d self-harm, but the tangible scars a blade left behind were my preferred way. The gradual affliction opposed to quick and to the point. The way a specific amount of pressure controls how much blood is drawn and how noticeable a scar it will leave. A razor blade was better than burning myself or scratching myself. I had more control over what was happening to me. I was able to snap out of my old routine before I relapsed. Before the clear, warm water turned a crimson color. My grip on the blade tightened while my eyelids fell shut. Mumbling to myself, ‘No external pain can heal your internal pain, dumbass.’ I wasn’t going to fall back into my old ways. I wasn’t the same weak Brooklyn I was back in 2012. But just like an alcoholic will always be an alcoholic no matter how long they are clean, I’ll always be a self-harmer even though I’ve not dragged a razor across my flesh in eight and a half years. My hand draped over the edge of the tub, dropping the metal onto the floor before completely sinking under the water. A way to clear my head. I was only under for a few moments before lifting my head back above the surface. Exhaling a relieving sigh. Usually after these kinds of head spaces, I feel like a zombie. Dead inside, but somehow still pushing through life. This is the first time I felt alive. Content with being alive and going through this hurt alone. I pushed myself up out of the tub. A warm towel wrapped around me before allowing the water to drain. Able to look at myself in the mirror; damp golden curls framing my face while my dark grey eyes stared back at me. “You’re going to get through this. There isn’t an obstacle you can’t conquer.” My voice was soft, but firm. I believed those words that left my lips. It was time for me to do my own research. How unlikely would it be for someone with severe endometriosis at the age of 29 to become pregnant? Was insemination an option? If I did get pregnant, what were the chances I could carry to full term? These are the things I needed to figure out and if any of these options were viable, I’d have to act fast. I’m not getting any younger.

[moanbrooklyn]

:: 𝐀 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧 ::

They say nearly half of the marriages in America end in divorce. Half. That’s approximately 780,000 divorces. We never think that it could happen to us. No one walks into the courthouse or down an aisle with the thought of ‘This will probably end in divorce.’ The average length of a marriage is 8-10 years.

I was lucky to make it to a couple of months.

Cream toned walls with a putrid forest green trim surrounded me. A handful of matte black chairs were spaced out accordingly throughout the room, not the cheap kind either. No, these chairs looked custom reupholstered. My fingertips anxiously rubbed against the denim fabric covering my legs while my heart practically thumped in my chest. Why was I here? I don’t do this. I don’t even think it will help.

Last week, I would have done anything. Anything to help me cope with the pain I’ve been holding in the deepest part of my soul. Crumpled to pieces on Alice’s kitchen floor. I finally couldn’t hold it back anymore. Alice’s poor Givenchy dress. Completely soaked in my tears and mascara stains. She was as good with emotions as I was. Nothing made us more uncomfortable than when someone showed strong emotions; especially when crying was involved.

I couldn’t blame her for programming a therapist’s number into my phone. She had to have been over my sporadic emotional breakdowns; not that she didn’t care, but because she truly didn’t know what to do in those situations. I’m surprised she didn’t make the appointment for me. That same night, I called and made the appointment. Reluctantly, but I was desperate. Who else was I going to talk to?

The hands on the clock seemed like they were moving in a quarter of the time they should be. Each tick only brought me closer and closer to grabbing my purse and heading out of the office. My attention was brought to the sound of her door opening. 10:30 a.m. right on the dot. Punctual.

“Mrs. Graves, come on in.” That reminds me, I needed to legally change my last name back to Bones. I wanted to run. The exit was a shorter distance than her actual office. My legs seemed to betray my mind as I took slow steps towards the woman who held her door open for me. Fuck, I guess this is what we’re doing now. Time to air out all my goddamn feelings to some stranger who has probably heard this shit a million times. I couldn’t help the roll of my eyes. It was a curse the way every emotion and every detail of remorse or pain echoed onto the lines of my face. Every single thought that passed through my mind was practically written on each expression I make.

I’ve never been to a therapist before, so I expected one of those couches patients lay on like in the movies. Her office was full of sunlight; golden rays illuminating the light grey walls. A dark leather arm chair in the middle of the room and a matching love seat opposite of it. “My name is Dr. Facinelli, but any friend of Alice Hale can call me Heather. Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

Setting my purse on the floor next to the loveseat before I take a seat. It wasn’t the type of couch that sucks you in and the leather was smooth, not sticky. Tall, red oak bookshelves lined the wall on the opposite side. Taking a moment to scan through the genres of hardbacks she had. Lots of biographies, true crime and Stephen King books. “It seems pointless to ask you how you are today since I can see the pain and anxiety on your face, so why don’t we start with when this started?”

The woman’s chestnut locks were pulled back into a pristine ponytail. Fingernails were a neutral toffee color. I almost didn’t hear her words, but some subconscious part of my mind was able to comprehend what she had said. I hadn’t noticed how my fingernails sunk into the palms of my hands until I noticed a subtle pain. Quickly laying my palms flat on my thighs; I was clearly uncomfortable. I don’t do this. I don’t openly talk about my issues. If I can hold it in, I will. But here I couldn’t. And once the words started to come out, they didn’t stop. That is why I don’t bring things up. Holding it in was easier for me. That familiar heart crunching ache came back, but I wasn’t going to allow myself to cry. I barely cry in front of my best friend, let alone in front of a complete stranger. The pain in my chest was enough to show more uncomforting facial features. Dark gray orbs focused on the wooden floor.

“Not until a week after my ex-husband filed for divorce. I spent that first week in complete shock. Unable to feel anything else. It was out of nowhere. I didn’t even know he was unhappy with me. I tried for weeks trying to make sense of it and to be honest, I still don’t know what happened.” My voice was soft, but shaky. Memories of throwing away my birth control resurfaced. Tiny, pink pills tossed in the toilet and flushed down the drain. Showing Matthew the empty birth control package. Our conversation about wanting a baby played word for word in my mind and that’s when I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Droplets trailing down my cheeks. I haven’t felt this embarrassed in so long. 

Get it together, Brooklyn. Who taught you to be so weak? There’s a reason you built those walls and now you choose to be vulnerable? My inner voice was angry with me. Furious. How dare I allow myself to shatter in front of someone I didn’t even know; to shatter at all. Fuck it. Might as well keep going. “I struggled. I wasn’t able to give him a baby. We wanted a family, but I wasn’t able to hold up my end. I don’t think that’s why he divorced me, but I don’t think it helped.” I really couldn’t bring up the fact that I was able to have kids when I was younger. A decade ago, I had two children. But that was in another life of mine. A life I wanted to forget. It felt like a train was rushing across my chest. As if someone had a tight grip on my heart and wouldn’t let go.

“Why do you think it ended on his part?” her voice was sincere. Almost as if she felt for me, but not in a pitiful way. My teeth gnawed on my lower lip, breathing inwardly through my nose in an attempt to stop my dreadful sobbing. My slender fingers combed through my champagne locks before shrugging my shoulders once. “I think he was bored. To be honest. I don’t think he was as serious about the relationship as I was. Since we couldn’t conceive, I think it was his breaking point. He wasn’t willing to fight for our marriage, so I had no choice but to sign the divorce papers.”

I didn’t notice how much time had gone by until we went into more detail about trying to achieve pregnancy. “I don’t even think I want kids anymore.” was the last sentence I said in today’s session. I felt completely defeated. Exhausted. I had no more fight in me. I wasn’t sure if I’d be back, but it was relieving to get everything out. Like a thousand pounds was lifted from my petite shoulders. Looking at myself in my visor mirror. The sunshine showing every mascara streak on my cheeks. I shook my head.

“Fucking ridiculous. How much more of this can I take?”