The unthinkable has happened. At the ripe old age of 37, I have found myself longing to commit my innermost thoughts to paper as I did so freely during my adolescence. Only this time, the subject matter is slightly more hard-hitting. (I’m sure my 16-yr-old self would beg to differ. Young love was hard. Sigh.) So today is the day that I have decided to start a diary – a hobby usually reserved for angst-ridden teens. What I would give to be an angst-ridden teen once more.
Now I am not a novice in the art of diary-writing. I have filled countless notebooks with incoherent teenage ramblings and, somewhat inexplicably, pencil sketches of dogs; seemingly the only subject matter I was even vaguely capable of representing on paper. Documented in minute detail inside these never-ending diaries spawning years of my young adult life, were the recent escapades of my latest love interest, and their latest love interest – never me, sadly – alongside developments with friends’ latest love interests, (admittedly more requited).
But writing a diary as a *proper* adult? (And I use that term extremely loosely.) Unthinkable. Or it would be, if my life were in any way sticking to the regimented milestones of my theoretical life plan. Because no matter what I do and no matter what I try: I. CAN. NOT. GET. PREGNANT.
I’ve tried all manner of approaches; some rational, some borderline crazy and some categorically insane.* But the end result is always the same. My uterus remains as barren as the Atacama desert.
So, what do you do when your life isn’t panning out in the way that you planned? Well, if you’re me, you dig out your best notebooks once more and set about documenting the relentless and uncompromising journey that is infertility, in the only way you know how. Luckily for you, not an unimpressive anthology of mediocre dog drawings.
*I once tried to go an entire month without touching till receipts after hearing of their (probably negligible) negative impact on fertility. Unsurprisingly, this exercise did not leave me with-child.