I was going to write about my unfortunate brush with a reflexologist but suddenly there doesn’t seem any point.

Today I finally admitted to myself that my Beloved Husband and I are not dealing with the business of trying and failing to have a baby.  The arguments and tears of the past month have become too loud and colourful to ignore as one-offs.  The anxiety has set in and begun to permeate everything that we share: it’s in the casual chat about whether we can hear the newborn cry downstairs, it’s in relating the news that another one of our friends is pregnant, it’s in the evenings we set aside to spend time together and end up talking about his future test results, it’s in the future plans I’m anxious about him making for when they overlap with an opportunity to try, it’s in the breakfast we eat with the pregnancy vitamins we take at the same time, it’s in the washing-up we argue about doing when we can’t find a way of expressing our greatest fears, it’s in the paintwork, the water and the dust.

The flat we bought together before we married was the place we started building our life together.  It was where my husband wrote, where we cooked and ate together, where we shared ideas and I made plans to explore and write my own stuff one day.

In recent months that same flat has become both a refuge, and a prison. It’s the place I escape to cry and talk about the things I can no longer discuss with my pregnant friends. It’s the place my husband goes to be alone and quiet in his own head.  It’s the place he receives the wife who doesn’t want to be alone when all he wants to be is alone. It’s the only place his wife feels she can be understood yet the only place she doesn’t feel listened to.

All this and we still don’t know if there’s anything that’s medically stopping us from conceiving.  But if we can’t handle the first twelve months, how will our relationship survive further tests and medical procedures? When we married, we promised to stay together through good times and bad, in sickness and in health.  No one tells you there are bad times you can choose to leave.

I think I love my husband too much to go through this.  I think I value the plans we had together before babies were ever an issue.  I think that maybe, maybe I choose not to go through this cycle of hope and despair anymore.

I want my marriage back.

I want my life back.

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