To run or not to run…. away

The thing is, I’m now not so sure of what I want. I still have this huge urge inside me to be a mum, to have my own children and bring them up. But I also want … I just don’t know.

Gary asked me why I wanted to be a mum, why I wanted to have kids. I said I didn’t really know, I just knew it inside me. I can’t explain the feeling or the reasoning. It’s just something I have and I know that I so desperately want.

Before he came to stay with me, I asked him to read the letter to my baby post. I think he read other posts as well, which is fine. He told me that reading the blog upset him, but he didn’t elaborate further. I wasn’t too sure if he’d read it, but he did say something about me wanting to have named the baby Lily.

I told him that I was thinking of going ahead with plans to be a mum, go through sperm donor next year. He asked how he could send his stuff over from NZ; pretty much be my donor. I asked if he wanted me to have his kids, to which he said that I almost did. He asked me the same and I responded with the same. We didn’t talk about the baby any further.

I will be honest here and say that I had a deep secret hope inside me that he’d get me pregnant during his visit. I did and do question some of his choices, but he would be a good dad. My cycles haven’t been regular throughout my life, except when on the pill. I was averaging around six to eight-weekly before getting pregnant. But since the miscarriage, I’ve been four to five-weekly. Had I been on the six weekly cycle, when he visited I would have been ovulating, so ripe for making a baby. But that wasn’t the case and instead for our last two nights together, I had my period and I tried to keep the disappointment buried inside me.

Gary did tell me that I do have another ten years to have kids; that I shouldn’t rush into it now. This is what my psychologist is telling me as well. I know this is true, but I also know that it will be harder the older I get and I just don’t want to be an old mum. I want to be able to be physically active with my children; I want to have grandchildren and see them all grow up. But now I am wondering if this is the right thing for me.

Beating alongside my desire to have children is now a growing desire to get out there and do something else. Spend some time on me and perhaps go travelling again. I need to mix things up and experience more again.

I’ve just found out that my landlord is selling the apartment I rent. It may end up being bought by an investor, in which case I have nothing to worry about. But an owner-occupier could buy it, in which case, I would need to move out. This has added to me thinking about change and running away.

The things stopping me are the responsibility I feel to stay here and plan for a stable future; the fear that I won’t get a job when I get back and have to start again from the bottom; the money; the possibility that I just want to do this so I can be with Gary.

I didn’t bring any of this up with Gary, but he did say he’d like me to visit him and he’d like to visit me. He did tell me not to move too far away so he can stay here when he comes over for the Australian Open.

I want to run away so I can forget about everything that’s happened, start afresh and move on. I told Gary so many times that he needed to figure out what he wanted. It turns out that I need to do that. Do I look at getting my British passport and going to Europe, do I go to New Zealand and travel around? Do I pack up my stuff here and just travel Oz for a year? Or do I stick around and hope that I find myself and everything just works out?

The thing is, I’m not sure what I want. Will running away help me figure it out or confuse me further?


Don’t be mad…

I spent the week with Gary. It turns out he did want to see me and take me out to dinner; so he did. I must admit that when he brought this up on the phone a while ago I wasn’t too sure he’d follow through. Then the time approached and he told me what his plans were and that he’d like to spend his last week in Australia, in Melbourne, with me.

I was incredibly nervous and unsure if I should. I didn’t know how I’d respond to seeing him, how I’d feel, how we’d be around each other and how I’d be when he left. But I agreed to not only seeing him, but also having him stay with me for the week.

He said he’d like to do the Great Ocean Road and I asked if he’d like me to go with him and he said yes. So, after only being at work for three months, I asked for two days annual leave and had myself a long weekend. I checked with Jess and Rachael if they were okay with me taking a long weekend and they were. Rachael did however ask if I was taking it off to go up and visit Gary. I told her that no, I was not going up [to Sydney] to visit Gary.

I didn’t lie when I told her that. I didn’t go and visit Gary. He came to stay with me. I felt a little cheeky, knowing really that maybe it wasn’t the best plan and perhaps I shouldn’t do it. But I liked the little tweak of the truth and having the secret.

I’d mentioned to Alison that Gary had been planning to come to Melbourne by end of October for a visit before heading to New Zealand. She just told me that he wouldn’t be welcome at our girl’s night out (tonight). I told no one else of Gary’s impending visit; when he first brought it up awhile ago, Emma simply told me to meet him in a neutral place in the city, out in the open. In principle I agreed with her.

The week was my little secret and when the Wednesday arrived for him getting here, I was so nervous. My drive home from work was excruciatingly long, yet far too short. I’d not experienced butterflies in my belly to that extent since we’d started going out. I felt like a little girl again, nervous yet excited about seeing a boy.

I painstakingly waited the hour or so after I got home for him to arrive. I started panicking, thinking he’d changed his mind when he wasn’t here by 6; I told him I’d be home about 5.45. And then the front door buzzed. He was here. I let him in and paced the apartment until he made it up to my floor and to my door.

I opened the door and we just hugged. He walked in and dumped his bag then held me; held me tight like he had months ago. We stood for I don’t know how long, but it felt right, just standing and holding each other. I did feel myself holding back, I didn’t know how strong I’d be. But it did feel good in his arms.

I’d deliberately worn a top that day that had a little split at my chest; appropriate for work (just) but also to give off a hint of what lay beneath. I felt Gary’s eyes drop there a few times. It made me feel good; I was appreciated, even if for perhaps the wrong reasons at the time. It was confidence boosting. On top of that, I had also lost a further 6 kilos since we saw each other last. Nine kilos lost in total since we split up – in the last two weeks I’ve really noticed the difference.

We did share the bed that night; it was so nice to be held again. We spooned like we hadn’t before. We were both nervous, yet also quite honest with each other in terms of what we liked and what we wanted. I didn’t sleep much that night; it takes me time to adjust to sharing my bed. But when I did toss and turn, he was there and we took turns holding each other. Of course, his snoring didn’t help.

I again felt cheeky at work the next two days; I had this secret that no one knew of and certainly wouldn’t approve of. But I also had a four-day weekend to look forward to; a long weekend with Gary. A long weekend that would honestly either make or break me further.

We talked about going out for a drink Friday night, but in the end just stayed in and talked, caught up. We had our usual Saturday breakfast of bacon and eggs – he still made the usual mess and I sadly over cooked the eggs. But we had fun. I did find myself frustrated at the lack of activity – weekends are for doing things and I’m not usually one to sleep in. But the weather was terrible and we did have a fancy dinner planned. I found myself questioning some of Gary’s choices and values and felt that perhaps it had been for the best. He did ask me a couple of times about us being married. He asked what I would say if he asked me to marry him now; did I see us getting married in the future.

I struggled to answer; I didn’t want to hurt him and I also didn’t want to get my hopes raised. Right now, getting married or planning to get married is not right. We are both in different places and want different things in the immediacy. I’m ready and wanting to settle down and have a family. He still wants to travel and see more. He is hopeful of getting his Irish passport which should allow him to get a visa for Australia again, but that could be years away. And he still wants to do New Zealand and Canada and then even SE Asia. I’m not sure where I fit into that.

I told him that right now, I would say no; we’re not in the same place and he still doesn’t know what he wants. I didn’t shut him down completely but I did say that both of us might meet someone. He said that he was still scared of marriage and commitment; he’s convinced he has gamophobia. I don’t believe he has that as such, I still think he’s just struggling to figure out what he wants.

I told him that when you’re with someone and you think you have a phobia of marriage, if you truly want to be with that person, you get counseling, you work on that phobia and whatever else is holding you back. You don’t regret the things that you’ll miss out on; you look forward to the things that you’ll do together.

Dinner Saturday night was at Eureka 89. It was a 7-course degustation menu and we were able to go to the sky deck for the best views of Melbourne. It was absolutely stunning. We had a couple of cocktails before dinner and then a wine with dinner. We truly enjoyed each other’s company.

Gary had told me a couple of times that he loved me and I’d not really responded; I think once I told him of course he did, I was awesome. We did have a moment at dinner and I did finally put the words out there. I told him that I did still love him. It felt right and the truth is, I do still love him. I’m not as in love with him as I was; I can’t be if I want to go on. But I do still love him and most likely always will.

After dinner we went to watch his beloved Spurs play. I did try to get involved, but I just can’t get into soccer. It was a nil all game – so boring! I need the excitement of action and scoring. We got chatting with a Dutch guy who was into the soccer but didn’t like AFL – they ganged up on me a little, but I felt I was able to hold my own. Don’t knock AFL – they don’t fall over and beg for a penalty, they get up and keep on playing!

We then made our way back to Young and Jackson – the scene of the crime. It was where we’d first met and spent many a Saturday evening having a drink and a boogie. It wasn’t the same; the usual band was back, but the crowd was drunker and dirtier. He went to the toilet at one stage and a guy offered to buy me a beer; he wouldn’t leave me alone. He was harmless but I was left uncomfortable. Finally Gary returned and I felt safe, comfortable again. Gary asked the guy to buy him a beer; the bar apparently turned him away.

I slept really well that night; my body adjusted to having him there again and I actually fell asleep in his arms. Again, it felt right. When we did go to bed at the same time in the past, I’d start off in his arms, but never fell asleep in them – we tossed and turned until we pulled apart. I’m not sure why it was different this time.

Don’t be mad, but I do still love him. I spent an entire week with him and I’ve come out in one piece. I can’t be mad anymore.

Overcoming the fear factor

One of the biggest struggles for me at the moment is working through the fear factor. The fear of being alone, fear of not finding love, fear of not becoming a mum, the fear of not being happy with myself.

There’s not a lot I can do about some of those things but there is something I can do about being happy with myself. I’ve known for a while that I needed a hobby. A real struggle with online dating is listing what you’re interested in and what you do for fun, for a hobby. I certainly have things that I enjoy, but I wouldn’t call them hobbies.

I started thinking about it. What do I enjoy and what can I do more of? Dancing came up. Dancing is something I enjoy; I’m not good at it, but I enjoy it. My bestie used to do belly dancing so I whipped out Google to find somewhere local. I couldn’t find something that seemed right so I expanded my search and got the right fit. Pole dancing. Yep. Pole dancing.

After a little hesitation and far too much over thinking, I thought bugger it, and signed up for an eight-week course. The class times suited and the term started the following week. I’m now four weeks in, and last night I finally started to feel proud of myself.

I’m not proud of my body; I’d like to be slimmer, have smaller hips, thighs and a smaller bottom, a toned down belly. The usual really. But it’s more than just appearance for me. I’m lacking confidence in my body’s strength and ability to give me what I want. I’ve labeled my miscarriage as my body’s ultimate betrayal. My body wasn’t able to sustain a pregnancy; there must be something wrong with me, with it.

I am growing to accept my body. At times I do feel quite pretty, attractive even, happy with my figure and features. When I get dressed up, I’m happy with my reflection in the mirror. I also remember that Gary, and other guys, have made me feel sexy – they never complained about my body and in fact enjoyed it. So why shouldn’t I accept it, enjoy it, as well?

Past feelings of sexiness isn’t enough however to give me the confidence to dance around a pole in underwear. I had to think beyond my body and focus on the physical activity, the skill involved, the strength I’ll gain and the fact that I’m doing something that isn’t work, isn’t self-loathing and isn’t filled with pity. I’m doing it to meet new people, try something different and get out of the house. I’m doing something incredibly unlike me, yet completely right for me.

What I have found is that pole dancing is actually quite empowering. I’m enjoying telling others that I’m taking pole-dancing lessons. I feel sexy and cheeky and a little naughty when I tell people about it. My psychologist gave me a high five and my friends are keen to learn more, see the epic bruises I’m getting (I do mean epic – I think my right shin will be a continual bruise, layer after layer after layer). I like sharing my experiences.

I was quite open, yet incredibly nervous, for my first class. Would the teacher be nice, would the other students be nice, would they be slimmer than me, bigger than me, better than me? Would I be able to let myself go with the flow and eventually end ‘bottoms up’? I needn’t have worried. Everyone is friendly and helpful and supportive; we’re at different levels but we’re all learning and focusing on ourselves. We’re there to get fit and have fun; try something different.

But, the lessons are tough; this isn’t just swinging around a pole. This is a true workout and you move body parts you didn’t know moved and you move in ways you hadn’t thought of before. It is incredibly sexy, the movements, the hair flicking, the confidence and the attitude. I can’t help but compare myself to the others and then hide behind my lack of co-ordination. I have told myself not to give up, that my teacher has been doing this for years and I have literally just started. It was a fight for me to keep going; I do lack co-ordination with finer movements and I over-think all the moves, so I’m stilted rather than flowing. So my confidence has suffered, but I told myself that I was not to give up.

We’ve been taught new moves each week, expanding on the week before. I’m taking my time with it, trying not to over think the moves and let myself go. But I am holding myself back, allowing the fear factor to take over. The truth is though, I’ve already got lots of bruises and they are the worst injury I’ll get. So last night, I finally just told my mind to shut up and I actually completed a chair spin. I had both legs off the ground and spun around the pole. I felt good. I felt confident. I felt that I could do this, that I will do this. I stopped thinking about it, and just went with the flow. I got the move and I felt so proud.

I have a long way to go and so much to work on, but I’m going to do it. This is for me. I’m feeling empowered and better about my body; I’m getting over the fear factor and learning to accept myself further. I’m letting myself go so I’ll get more spinning done, I’ll be dancing around that pole in no time. The fear will of course still make an appearance, but once upon a time I couldn’t walk, talk or drive. Perseverance and practice got me through. And they will do again. It’s okay to have fear, but it’s important to work through it. Pole dancing: a hobby for fitness, empowerment and overcoming fear.

A Letter to my Baby

To my little baby,

How I wish to have been able to meet you; to feel you grow inside me; to hear your cries and giggles; to hold you at least once. Life is hard without you, immensely hard. The pain I’ve felt has been incomprehensible. I didn’t know that pain like this existed.

You entered my life unexpectedly; you caught your dad and I off guard. We didn’t know how to react, what to say to each other and what to do. I was so happy to have you in my life, yet I was so worried to tell anyone about you. So worried that I wouldn’t get to meet you. I need you to know that this was nothing to do with you, but was about the stage in my life and the struggles that your dad and I were going through.

You were absolutely created with love, I will always know and acknowledge that. I need you to as well. I constantly think about the what ifs, the if onlys, the what could or should have beens. But they only hurt me further. I can’t go back and change anything and I can’t bring you back to life. Even if your dad and I had reacted differently, it may not have changed anything.

Many have tried to tell me that losing you was nature’s way of telling me that you weren’t viable, that you weren’t meant to be. I can’t believe that. You were my baby; you were growing inside me for almost seven weeks. I need to think and feel that you were meant to be, that all living creatures are viable. But in the end, you decided that it wasn’t right to come into this world, into my life further than you had.

I don’t blame you for anything; I’m trying not to blame myself. I’d like to blame someone or something, but that’s not me. I can question the facial cleanser I used, the drinks I had, the hot bath I enjoyed, and the salad on my burger. It won’t help, I’ll never have an answer and the outcome won’t change.

I see other babies around, other pregnant women and I want to be a part of it, I want them to be me, to be us. But that can’t happen. I need to try and let you go, so I can move on. I’ve been told I need to stop thinking about the dates and counting up. But that only disrespects you and dismisses what you were to me. You were my baby; you are my baby. I can’t and won’t forget you.

I’ve been quite lucky in my life; I’ve not suffered a lot of heartache and experienced very little grief. Maybe I needed to suffer, or learn from you to be the best person I can be. Learn and truly know and believe that one day I’ll be an amazing mum.

Maybe things weren’t meant to be for your dad and I. If they were meant to be, we would have worked through things better, shared in our grief at your loss, or shared in our happiness at our initial gain. I don’t know what your dad went through, but he wanted you, though you sure as hell scared him. He wanted you to be a boy; he wanted to take you to the football, to teach how to kick a soccer ball (he had no clue with an AFL footy, I would have taken on that task!). The truth is I think he would have been even more scared if you were a girl; though I would have insisted that you still get taught soccer and be taken to the footy.

I wanted you to be happy and healthy; at times I did want you to be a girl, simply out of spite to your dad. However I only considered girls names and one kept re-emerging: Lily. There are lots of Ls in my family and I think it would have fitted in nicely. I also liked the idea of having Jane as your middle name, not just after me, but also because that is your Aunty Wendy’s middle name, so it would have been a nice reference to both sides.

I’ve just learnt that yesterday was International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I didn’t know it existed. I do know that many people hide the loss of their babies and struggle with their grief. An official day might help remove the stigma associated with miscarriage, might allow people to share their stories and their heartache. But it won’t bring their babies back or suddenly make them feel better. Only time will help us feel better, less sad and allow our grieving to come to an almost bearable level.

I do hope that I get to meet you one day; that you’ll tell me that you wish you had been able to meet me and show me your cries and your giggles and be held by me. That you knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that you were very much loved and oh so desperately wanted.

I’m coming to terms with the breakdown of my relationship with your dad; we’re even talking now without arguing and will be seeing each other soon. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I do hope that we can one-day share in our pain, and joy, for you.

I’m not necessarily coming to terms with losing you, but it is getting easier each day. I’m putting myself out there and trying new things, taking this time to love myself again and look after me. Make sure I’m the best version of me that I can be, so that when the time is right, your little brother or sister will have the best of me. I hope that you’re there to look after them, guide them and me through our lives.

To my baby, I love you and I miss you.




Loving Myself

I am slowly starting to love myself again. I am even almost enjoying my own company.

As we left work yesterday, Jess asked me what my plans were for the weekend, and I said that I was starting to enjoy my own company again, so I was going to take it easy; get my nails done, get some waxing done; pamper myself. And that’s exactly what I’ve done so far. I had a bath last night, had a sleep in and then got my nails done, got some waxing done and bought a new summer dress. And I didn’t hate myself or feel terrible while doing it.

Things have been getting better lately; I’m still not eating as I was, but that’s no longer concerning me. I feel like I’m eating a more appropriate amount. I wasn’t trying to lose weight, but I have lost about eight kilos and it seems to be staying off. Some of my tops and pants are looser and I feel better about my body. I’m shopping for new clothes and trying to create a new style, something that makes me feel good, more than simply being comfortable. Mel and Emma both complimented me when I last saw them. I feel good.

I still have low moments, but they are getting less frequent and less intense. Songs come on the radio that may cause a twinge in my belly, but it’s fleeting. Seeing happy couples doesn’t hurt as much and seeing babies and toddlers is less painful.

I saw my psychologist last week; she told me to embrace tinder and get out there, get some experience and know what I’m worth. She said that swiping left would be good for my confidence, knowing that I can do better. Even if I swipe left a hundred times, it will make me feel better. I did get on there last night, not sure on the volume of swipes, but I did look at some and think I can do better. I don’t like being judgmental, but I need to do things that can get me through.

Gary and I have been texting again, and have even spoken a couple of times. He’s no longer catching me by surprise. It’s just dawned on him that he’s leaving and he’s coming to Melbourne this week. He put in a message ‘I love you Laura’. I asked him why he said that, and he didn’t reply. When we spoke a few days later, I asked him again. He said that he ‘has love for me’. I’m not sure if he realises that both are actually very different. Or if maybe he regretted saying it. But at least when we talk, we don’t argue. He asked about my family, if they still hated him. I said that hate was a strong word. But I don’t hurt when we talk. I’m only going to worry about what I think and feel, not others.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about me, finding someone, having a baby and being happy. I’m trying to figure out what I want. I was telling my psychologist that I do want a baby, but I want to ensure that I’m doing it for the right reasons, that I’m not going to launch into that stage now to cover up my loneliness. I need to get my head right and together before I bring a life into the world. She tells me that I’ve still got plenty of time, as long as I’m ovulating, I’m physically able to have babies, possibly even for another 10-15 years. The time limit I’ve put myself on is my own limit, it’s self-imposed and in my head.

I realise that it is self-imposed and physically I should be able to bear children for some time yet. But emotionally and then further physically, I want to be able to run around with my children, heal after pregnancy and birth and see them grow up. My self-imposed time limit is still very relevant to me.

I do want a partner; I want love and happiness and a life to share with someone else. But more than that, I want to be a mum. I want to have children. I joined eHarmony and signed up for a twelve-month contract; the plan was to give myself 12 months to find someone and if I didn’t, then start pursuing single motherhood. I’ll still do that – perhaps even sooner, but I’m not going to put additional pressure on myself to find a partner.

I’m chatting with and meeting guys that I don’t have a huge interest in; it’s flattering that they’ve enjoyed meeting me and want to see me again, but I’m not feeling it. I need to take my time and find myself again. Before I can meet someone and have a relationship with them, I need to enjoy my own company and fall in love with being me again.

I lost myself in my relationship with Gary. I did everything with him in mind; my first consideration was always Gary. I got caught up in planning a future with him, what we’d do together. I stopped thinking about me, considering myself first and planning a future for me. In loving Gary, I forgot to love myself.

I’m embracing feeling better. I’m going to take my time and enjoy being me. Being alone, doing my own thing, answering to no one. I’m going to enjoy my own company and fall in love with myself again.

Wanting and Needing

I’m sitting here, ever so desperately wanting, needing to cry. To feel streams of salty, wet tears fall down my face, along my cheeks, across my jawbone and drop onto my chest.

I’m sitting here, ever so desperately wanting, needing to not cry. I am so sick of feeling down, of feeling the salty wet tears stream down my face, my nose start to tremble and my body start to shake.

I’m sitting here, ever so desperately wanting, needing to feel like a happy person again; someone who is happy within and without and not on the verge of breaking down.

I want to be in love, I want to be in love with myself again. I want to truly believe that there is good and happiness out there for me, that I’ll find happiness and contentment. But I hear a song on the radio, see a TV commercial, look at a photo, see a Facebook post or a baby in the street and it all comes rushing back in: the sadness, the negativity, the hopelessness.

I’ve had my heart broken before and I got over it. That relationship length was similar to this one, though not as serious and certainly not as passionate. But that relationship didn’t have a baby. That relationship didn’t see me get betrayed by my body, my workplace and my lover.

I’m a 33-year-old woman who used to pride herself on her independence, her ability to be happy on her own and pull her life together. That woman used to make plans for holidays, for special events for the future. She used to laugh, joke and smile and truly mean it. She got up early on the weekends, especially on sunny days so as not to waste the day. She used to visit her sister and niece and nephews on a regular basis. She used to enjoy cooking for herself and others. She used to enjoy eating and spoiling herself (slightly more than she should have). She used to enjoy being physically active and doing things on her own. She enjoyed seeing people happy and sharing in their good news, celebrating their weddings, new babies and family news.

This woman now doesn’t like her independence, can’t be happy on her own and feels her life is falling apart. She doesn’t make plans and is dreading approaching special events. She forces out laughter, jokes and smiles. She stays in bed for as long as she can on sunny weekends, not caring about the time wasted. She doesn’t make plans to see her sister and niece and nephews – and in fact feels immense pain when she does see them. She despises cooking and simply eats to survive, mainly on frozen meals. She doesn’t give herself treats – she simply doesn’t want any. She has no desire to be physically active and hates doing things on her own. Seeing news of others’ happiness, weddings and babies make her desperately sad and she doesn’t want a part of it.

It doesn’t help that in the back of my mind I tell myself this is ridiculous. Everyone goes through heartbreak, many lose their relationships and are able to pick up the pieces and move on. So many people suffer a miscarriage and seemingly move on. While I’m not usually one to feel sorry for myself – I used to believe that anything that was bothering me was insignificant compared to what others were going through – but now, I feel nothing but sorry for myself. I feel like I should be given a diagnosis, told that there is something wrong with me. Give me a ‘real’ reason for feeling how I feel. I don’t actually want an illness, or to have depression, but I can’t help but think that would help me feel okay with not feeling okay.

I so desperately want and need to cry. I so desperately want and need to not cry. I so desperately want and need to feel love. I so desperately want and need to fall in love with myself again.


Patience. It’s actually never really been a strong trait of mine. I would like to think of myself as patient, but I’m not. My family will be the first to tell you I’m not – I think they’ve even laughed when I’ve described myself as patient. I do have my moments, but with family and myself, I don’t.

I’m so over feeling down and out. I’m sick of being on the verge of tears. I’ve had enough of feeling sad. I want to be happy. I want to not cry at the drop of a hat. I want to feel excited and hopeful.

I went on a date last Friday night. We’d been chatting online and seemed to have a connection, so we arranged to meet at a sports bar at the casino so we could watch the footy. The night was okay; he didn’t seem to look at me or make eye contact when we spoke, but at least we did chat and held a fairly decent conversation. After the footy, we wandered for a bit and then ended up at a club with an 80’s cover band and had a boogie. Things got weird when he pointed out his ex, but we moved on. I then went in for the pash and afterwards he said he didn’t like kissing in public. It just wasn’t quite right.

I questioned myself the rest of the weekend, thinking I’d done something wrong, that I’d made it weird. I obviously know that it just wasn’t right. But I can’t help but doubt myself. I had been chatting with another guy from online, and then suddenly he stops texting me. I went on a second date with my bestie’s friend’s brother and then nothing. I’m sending out lots of ‘smiles’ on eHarmony and am getting nothing in return. I must be doing something wrong. I’m full of doubt and impatience.

Sitting at my desk at work on Monday, I almost broke down. It took all my self-control to not cry and make a fuss. I immediately jumped on my phone and made an appointment with my GP. Shortly after getting home that night, I cried. Not just cried, I sobbed. My stomach ached and my heart hurt. I wanted to be pregnant; I wanted my baby. I wanted someone to share it with. I didn’t want to be alone.

I just want to be happy; I want a partner; I want a future and a family. And I want it all now. Everyone keeps telling me it will take time, to let myself feel what I’m feeling and be patient. But I’m bloody over it. This year started out amazingly and it’s not showing any signs of ending in the same manner.

Patience is not my strong point. The more patient I am, the more I think about what I should have and what I no longer have. I want to wake up one day and feel better. I want to eat normally and enjoy cooking again. I want to want to do things and not force myself to do things. I want to look forward to the weekend. I want plans on the weekend that aren’t just simply sitting on the couch watching TV.

Patience. It’s highly overrated. Just be done with it and start feeling happy.