The truth is, I'm not really enjoying this pregnancy. I want to. So, so badly. I wrote my last post, about that magical moment of feeling the baby move, because I need a moment like that. I need to hang onto them.
Because I'm still sick, almost all the time. I throw up every morning. Nearly 18 weeks, and I'm still queasy most of the day. I threw up my dinner the past two nights. I have no appetite.
I try to tell myself that it's okay, that it's all for a good cause, and I believe that with all my heart - but truthfully, I'm exhausted. I'm miserable. I have looked forward to this experience for such a long time, and I hate the fact that, so far, I hate being pregnant.
This is very likely my only shot at this, my only pregnancy. We have one frozen embryo, but frankly, the way this is going, I may never want to do this again.
And if one more person tells me, "this part will be over soon," I will kick their well-meaning ass into next week. It was supposed to be over weeks ago. I was supposed to feel better weeks ago. And instead, I just feel guilty all the time, because I feel miserable, and I hate feeling miserable, and I hate that I'm not enjoying this pregnancy. I'm crying as I write this because I hate admitting all of these things, and I wouldn't do it, except that a.) I have to get it out somewhere and b.) I suspect there might be some other miserable woman out there who would appreciate knowing she's not alone.
Infertility, among all its other curses, makes you feel that you should never, ever, ever complain about being pregnant. That you should bask in every single second, because you know how hard it is to be here, and you know how hard it is for the women who aren't here yet, and who may never be. I was never going to complain about this. Ever.
But the truth will out, as they say. I'm probably just having a bad day. But now you know the truth. The ugly, hard, horrible truth. Maybe letting it out will stop the vomiting. God knows, I've tried everything else.