Warning: This blog post will be filled with wallowing, self-pity, and other miseries.

I peed on a stick when I got home from school today. I figured if I got the inevitable out of the way, then at least I could stop taking those stupid suppositories. Guess what I won’t have the pleasure of shoving up the ol’ girl tonight?

Obviously, the test was negative.

I realize in previous, more positive posts I said this would be a cycle with a positive outcome of either pregnancy or further healing, but that’s kind of a pile of shit to me right now. I failed. Again. My body sucks effing balls, and is completely incapable of doing what it’s supposed to as a woman. I kind of hate everything right now.

I said to J the other night that I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. The emotional toil it’s taking is brutal. Would throwing in the towel be any easier, though? That’s total admission of failure, and acceptance that I have zero control over this decision, and I don’t know how well I can tolerate that, either.

I’m sick of crying, I’m sick of feeling so jealous of everyone I see who’s pregnant and whose bodies have figured out how to do all of this, I’m sick of not getting any closer to where we want to be. And it’s all me. J could make beautiful babies elsewhere, and while that’s not something I’m even the remote bit concerned about, it compounds the sadness I feel by about a bazillion percent, as the blame rests all with me. My body won’t do this.

-Always Regular Van.