I am wearing my childless anxiety like a heavy army coat in the height of summer. It’s making me sad and angry and ready to pick a fight with DH over those little foam bits you put on ipod earphones. Last night I found myself in a darkened room crying my eyes out and asking for my Mum. I should say that the darkened room was in my flat and that the only person lucky enough to hear my pleas was a desperate DH who, in the absence of my dear and pregnant friends, is bearing the brunt of my childless woes. We both agreed that it wasn’t healthy for me just to be talking to him, that I should be talking to my Mum, should be seeking solace in the blogosphere, should give my friends more credit, should probably get some professional help.

DH asked me what would help. I said things would definitely improve if I got pregnant. I also said it would help if we had a plan for me to leave my job because, along with the fact that I used to drink coffee from a Styrofoam cup, I’m convinced it’s the key reason I’m not pregnant.

My theory on the job has nothing to do with the cliché that is stress. Everyone has stress in their lives and if it were true that stress stopped you from getting pregnant then why, in our perennially stressed modern day society, does the birth rate continue to soar? Rather, my theory is to do with “capacity”. I counsel and advise people for a living, often in areas too psychologically dark and complicated for my level of expertise. I nurture and cajole and encourage people so they can move on and realise their dreams. My theory is that we are all born with a certain about of this nurturing, counselling energy and that I am using it all up on my clients; I think that my body is assuming that even if it did make a baby, there wouldn’t be enough of this nurturing energy left to sustain its life, so it’s inhibiting my reproductive signals… I didn’t say it was a Nobel Prize winning theory.

When I’m not theorizing about the childless anxiety, sometimes it drags me into a black cave where the walls reverberate with voices that tell me every decision I ever made was the wrong one – my career, city, timing – that I was arrogant and stupid and that now I’m being taught a lesson for daring to hope for a baby. I’ve become convinced that this thing, this childless thing, is the big challenge I have to face in my life, and on the inside of that is an anxiety that this very conviction, that this very negative assumption, is actually the thing that’s stopping me from getting pregnant.

I like to think of my anxiety like a Russian Doll; open one and there’s another, staring blankly, painted brightly, screwed shut tightly.

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