Maybe Next Year Will Be Better!
As I sit here and write this it is now 23 days until Thanksgiving and 50 days until Christmas day.
My first gut reaction is, “I don’t wanna. I don’t want to deal with it this year!” and go bury myself in some hole. And really, I don’t want to deal with it. At all. In any way.
I don’t want to deal with the family. I don’t want to deal with the kids. I don’t want to make small talk and chatter. I don’t want to put on a smile and be good company.
Just. Don’t. Wanna!
But how do I tell people this without seeming cruel?
Every year is the same. I go through this every single year. This is also something I don’t want to do anymore. Every year I think to myself that it will be better next year because surely I’ll have a baby or at least be pregnant by then! Yet, it’s never different, every year turns out the same, me sitting here dreading the next 50 or so days.
So now I prepare myself against the onslaught of pregnancy announcements on FB and twitter and Instagram, buying things for children that aren’t mine, watching them open presents and pretending to be excited. If people really knew what was going through my mind during these situations yet being able to smile and go on as if everything is ok they would nominate me for an Emmy. Seriously.
This never gets better and I wish it did. I wish I could tell someone who has just started this journey that it gets better, it doesn’t. I’m still as angry as I was all the years before. It’s still the type of anger that makes me want to throw the lap top I am typing on right this second on the floor, the type of anger that turns into a desperation and a panic that makes me want to claw at the walls I’m trapped in, that no one else can see, until my fingernails come off because then at least my bloody fingers would be a tangible something causing the pain, it could be something I can show others so they could see the pain.
But hey, maybe next year will be better and I’ll have my own baby to buy for and show off or at least be pregnant, right?