The emotional rollercoaster I'm on reminds me a little of a very special phenomenom in the veterinary world, the cuterebra. Basically, cuterebra are fly larvae that become embedded in an animal's skin. They can be difficult to treat, because they like to pop their heads in and out (Hello, world!)and hide, and they're difficult to prevent. Today, my grief cuterebra (let's call him Cutie) poked his little head out and ruined my day.
I was doing fine, even as of this morning, when I wrote about feeling glad to be empty-wombed (at least this month). But then I found out that an old friend's baby has been born, and that pesky Cutie poked his head out to say hello and remind me that, no, I am not normal/healthy/fertile at all. I want to be happy for them - she has had cancer and gone through treatment, and so this baby is a miracle baby. But all I can think about right now is how I want my own miracle, dammit. I'm so fucking sick of being happy for everyone else, or feeling guilty about not feeling happy for everyone else. I'm so fucking sick of these unexpected sadness smackdowns, just when I'm doing well. I'm so fucking sick of having the kind of life that builds character.
(Wow I just realized that I dropped a lot of f-bombs right there. Sorry.)
I wish that I could dig down deep into my brain with a nice long pair of tweezers and pull that Cutie out. And stomp on him. And crush his pasty little face.