Self-Blame and Grief

I’ve always wanted to be a mom. I’m an ISFJ and an Enneagram 6: I’m responsible and [generally] kind; I like security and stability and strive to provide those things for others. I love babies. I think I’d be good at being a mom.

PLOT TWIST: I am bad at becoming a mom. I have PCOS, which means my periods are irregular and ovulation can be really infrequent. Guess what, when you don’t ovulate you don’t get pregnant.

There’s no cure for PCOS. I can manage it, but there’s no way to make it go away.
Then, on top of my PCOS, I lost both my babies. The TAC fixed the issue with my cervix, but there’s no way to turn back time and save my babies.

Now we’re trying to conceive again, and it’s very easy to get discouraged when the months roll past and my hormone levels “look good” but nothing happens. I think it’s official: I’m bad at becoming a mom.

I blame myself for all of it, even when maybe I shouldn’t. I spent over 6 years in the Air Force and “doing your best” needs to mean, at all times, “you did your best and the results were up to standard or better” [or, I guess, “you did your best and died surrounded by the bodies of your enemies” or something].

I did my best. I took my vitamins, I ate low-carb to avoid gestational diabetes [and I. LOVE. CARBS], I signed up for progesterone injections without a blink. There is no comfort for me in this knowledge.

I mean, sure I did my best, but I still lost my children so who the fuck cares that I did my best? My best wasn’t good enough.

I guess the only comfort to find in “I did my best” is that I didn’t do anything to harm my babies. I did all I knew to do, and if I’d known better I would’ve done more. Still, it’s a cold comfort.

I remember the first time I really let in the realization that it might all be my fault. We’d lost Faith a few months before, and hadn’t conceived Elijah yet. It was fellowship time after church [remember when there was no COVID and people just carelessly breathed on and near each other? what a reckless time that was] and I was praying.
“Lord, I would’ve done my best to raise Faith to love you.”
And then the thought: Would my best not have been good enough? Oh, God, is that why?
That thought has lived somewhere in the back of my mind ever since. It was like a lightning strike, and it has changed how my heart beats.

I don’t pretend to know why we lost our babies. It is beyond me, quite literally. I have no explanation why, other than my physical incapability. I believe in a God who exists outside of space and time; I believe that He calls each life into being. I don’t know why He allowed my body to form with a defective cervix, or why He allowed me to develop a problem like PCOS. I struggle with the feeling that my life, and my body, are just a long-term joke.

I know, in my head, this way of thinking will get me nowhere. However, my heart has not yet recovered from that post-church musing. I hope someday it does. I think a lot of that healing will have to come from me changing my thinking, which is on my to-do list.

I guess the point of this post is, I lose myself in self-blame sometimes. I know I didn’t do anything to deserve losing my babies, or anything to hurt them. I know it wasn’t my fault. Or maybe I should say, my brain knows; my heart doesn’t. My brain wants to give me a break, but my heart is sharpening the knives.
It’s a hard place to be.

I’m a couple days away from starting my period for this month. I know I’m not pregnant, again. That’s probably for the best–we’re trying to move, and this is finals week for my school, and I don’t know if I’m mentally ready for another baby. We have a lot going on and I probably shouldn’t be a psycho for 40 weeks on top of it. But, shit–is this my life now? Grief and disappointment? Grief and more infertility? Shit.


[I know I’m swearing a lot, sorry.]

Is the secret to contentment just to stop wanting another baby? Do I just need to let this desire go? I’m trying, just not trying very well, obviously. [“Doing my best,” she said, as she did NOT do her best. ]

I don’t have a really hopeful tone to end this on. Sorry. Christmas is coming, and the birth of my Savior is always something to celebrate, even if it’s just quietly at home. So I guess that’s my hopeful note for the end of this real downer of a post.

I hope you have a good day, and that you’re able to enjoy the Christmas season. Throw up some twinkle lights, have steak instead of turkey, do whatever you need to do to have a little fun. You’re not a bad person or a bad mom for wanting to feel a little normal.

Hugs to you.

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