I know I know I know I know I know.
There's no great plan in the universe out there, set up to slap me down every time I try to get up.
And I know that even thought it feels like every single thing sucks and is just telling me to give it up and let the car wander off the highway, I don't, because I know there are things that don't suck and there are lots of people who love me and who I love. And everything doesn't suck like students who share news with me and colleagues who try to get a smile from me when they see me down.
And every day is a fucking gift.
I just doesn't feel like it.
Last winter, when one thing after another after another just kept crapping all over me, I know it wasn't some message or punishment. The universe is not focused just on me.
I know that President-elect Obama will try to do good things for our country. I hope -- oh, god I hope -- that K comes home soon with a healthy heart.
I know that even though it feels like there is no fucking point to even trying to find pleasure because it will just end in pain -- or it will just end -- that that is just grief and depression talking.
I know that I have a lot to be grateful for. I have so many things I can look back to to find my "self" (chocolate, well, oreos) readings (though I can't concentrate) knitting (though I never finish anything, especially that gorgeous green blanket I started, imagining it for my child or for my sister's child). And the cats will walk all over the paints.
I know my sister's pregnancy is a very, very good thing. Not meant to make me feel even more isolated. Not meant to make me fear that I will never be pregnant again. Or be a mother, because I am so thoroughly emotionally wrung out right now. Not meant to make me fear for her safety, or the safety of her little one.
And I know she will do everything she can to keep this from becoming a wedge between us, but somehow, I fear it will. And I have never wanted anything more for her than this child she is carrying.
I know this doesn't mean I am the freak I always feared I was. I know this doesn't mean that and I will be the childless aunt and uncle at every event. I know that eventually Christmas will be a holiday I can participate in.
I know this depression doesn't mean that I am the permanently disabled. It doesn't mean my arms will forever be empty.
But it really feels like it.
I realized yesterday that part of what keeps me from volunteering at the animal shelter is my own selfishness. Last week, I sat on the floor with a sweet 25-lb. bundle of dog who lolled her eyes as I rubbed her jowls and leaned all over my lap so I could rub her belly. And I can't help but smile and doggie-coo.
That's why I haven't seen S's almost 3 month old baby: With her great big cheeks and arms and legs rolled with sweet squishy baby fat, looking me in the eye with a grin as I coo. And take in her baby smell as I kiss her head. And love every moment of it.
It's the giving her back. It's the knowing that this is not my family, not my baby. Two and a half years, 4 months of puking, endless doctors appointments. Hope upon fear upon hope.
And I say goodbye, have a nice evening, take care and I get into my empty car and I drive home with my empty arms. To the quiet house, and my loving chirpy cats and my husband who loves me so much he puts up with all my crap.
It is a cliche, but my arms are empty. They crave the weight of my own baby in my arms. Or the pull of the leash as I push the stroller at the fall festival.
I know I am selfish. I know I took for granted my whole life that I would get all that.
I know there is a good chance I will get none of it. I know I am feeling sorry for myself. I know I seem ungrateful for the wonderful things that I do have. I have so much.