The Unholy Alliance of Fear and Shame

I was, and in a lot of ways, still am, afraid to blog about the things closest to my heart. Will I be able to authentically portray my feelings without masking them for public consumption? Even if nobody reads it, will it he helpful and therapeutic for me as a processing tool? All valid concerns. This last worry is the kicker, and at the root of my anxiety: Is my struggle difficult enough to warrant telling other people? Somewhere along the path of my life, I put up some thick defenses and walls. Often, I believe that if I can just get through everything on my own, then I won't need to depend on anyone else, and I will never have to open up about "weak" things, like those uncomfortable emotions I tend to cover up with sarcasm and wit.  Fear of not being "damaged" enough or "sad" enough, or truly "challenged" enough kept me from opening up to others for support as I have struggled with fertility. As a sort of experiment in the power of vulnerability, I am putting it out there, whatever the outcome. But it is seriously hard, because on some level, I still feel like I am admitting failure, and I am ashamed of that.

I have always considered myself to be a strong person. A woman who knew what she wanted, went ahead and got it, and still felt all womanly and empowered while doing so. I wanted to go to college, get a first-rate education, be a leader on my campus and in my community. I did that. For a while, I wanted to work as a savvy political staffer (that's me at my college graduation), impacting the country by helping to shape policy and steering the national dialogue. So I did that, and then changed my mind about that particular career path. Then, I wanted to be a teacher, and I got my master's degree and became a really good educator. I wanted to get married, and it took a little longer than I thought it would, but eventually, I got that too. For a long time, I really felt like I could have everything. So when I didn't get pregnant the first month that we tried, I felt like the floor dropped out from under me. I had failed.

I have failed before. More times than I would like to admit. But those failures have been things I have been able to overcome by just pulling myself up by my bootstraps and soldiering on. I studied more. I put in more hours. I invested my heart in whatever needed to be done. As much as I would like to think that the attitude of, "I will just work harder and the fruits of my labor will be rewarded," will yield me a result and a gold star, I cannot will a baby into existence. I fundamentally believe that God can work miracles, and that I could have a miracle happen in my life, but that is in His hands and on His time. I can't control that. And as someone with major control issues, not being able to create a baby out of sheer will and determination sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks. Times a million. So much that I just want to scream.

It didn't start out this way. I had been married for about two months, when I had a sudden surge of panic. I felt the bile rise in my throat. I frantically ran to the calendar and counted backwards. I was late. By a week. I called my best friend and my mom. I freaked out. I wasn't ready for a baby! We were newlyweds. I wanted time to enjoy each other and go on trips and stay up late and enjoy all the general benefits of marriage that come after a chaste courtship (very Downton Abbey-ish, all lingering gazes and passionate hand-holding). I obsessed over things for a few days, and decided that when my best friend arrived for a visit at the end of the week, I would buck up, buy a pregnancy test, and seal my fate. Just my luck, I would know for sure that I was baking a little bun in my overachieving oven by the time the weekend rolled around. Friday arrived. I bought the test. I figured out how to use it. It was negative. And I was surprisingly heartbroken.

BJ came home from work and I immediately greeted him with this announcement: "I peed on the stick and it was negative." Best friend and husband knew me well enough to know that the casual sarcasm meant that I was devastated. So, we started trying.

We have approached this in countless ways. Try with vigor! Try with nonchalance. Try with hopeful enthusiasm. Count days. Track cycles. Take temperatures. Check physical signs for ovulation. Alternate days. Spend money on ovulation kits to discover that I am not having an LH surge. Eventually end up resenting the amazing gift of marital intimacy. Every month when my period doesn't come when I think it should come, run to the store and buy more tests. Throw them away and cry for days when there is only one pink line. Decide that the test was wrong, it was too early, and take another. Cry some more. I usually feel this major surge of relief when my period does come, so that I get a few blessed days of peace before the cycle begins all over again.

I lash out at people who I feel don't want children as much as I do, even if I love them with all of my heart. I strike out at my husband as he is infinitely patient with me, because my baby-deprived brain screams at me that there is no possible way he could ever want a baby as much as I do. And I fall deeper and deeper into the pit of despair created by the unholy alliance of fear and shame.

Fear and shame are downright evil. Ugh. I hate them so much I wish I could blow them up with some sort of large C4-laced explosive. I haven't figured all of this out yet, but I know these things for sure: I feel ashamed that I haven't been able to get pregnant, because I believe it is what I should be able to do as a woman. I fear that I will never be a mother because I  am terrified at the prospect of never being able to have a deep, maternal, chemically, genetically and emotionally bonded relationship with a divinely created soul that has been prepared just for my husband and I to raise, love and nurture. This shame and fear is paralyzing at times.

I am not as studied in the work of Brene Brown (all-around amazing researcher, doctor, and social worker) as I would like to be, but something that I love that she has developed is a definition of shame. She wrote in her book, I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn't), and made it the focus of her new book, Daring Greatly. "Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection." I love this definition. It helps me to process and break down how I am feeling, and to dissect some of my behaviors and emotions that feel so irrational.

I don't understand everything about my challenge-not by a long shot, but I do know this (at least with my head, if not yet with my heart): Difficulty conceiving is not failure. It may never happen for me, but it is not failure. There is no shame in my challenge. It is not shameful for me to feel sad, discouraged, disappointed, or even, at times, like a failure. My fear comes from a place of love and a desire for the most deep, meaningful and important form of connection possible-that of a parent and child. What matters is what I do with the fear. Some days, I might let it beat me back into a corner and spend my time crying. Other days, I might learn a lot of new information about effective diets for fertility, or research treatments, or talk to a good friend, or pray for strength. If I can recognize that I feel it, embrace that it comes from a real place, and decide what I want to do with these feelings on any given day, I am one step closer to true learning and growth. I don't have to be a warrior who never reveals the chink in her armor. I don't have to shove my misguided feelings of fear and shame away. I can process these emotions, discover their roots, open myself to feeling and learning from the pain, and as the brilliant Brene Brown says, "lean into the discomfort."

So I'm learning to lean in. Sometimes on chocolate. Or Cherry Coke. Or Netflix. On my husband. On friends. Always on Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. And I will learn to lean into the discomfort with whatever measure of grace I can muster, and for now, that is enough. Sometimes, even on days where it hurts so much I can't breathe, I feel like I catch a glimpse of the person I am becoming, and that helps the hard days to pass a little more easily. I am still a college graduate, a teacher, a friend, a sister, a daughter, and a wife. I can find joy in where I am now, even if there is a whole lot of discomfort and pain. And even if it takes me a long time to work through it, and even if I never have a baby, I don't have to let the unholy alliance of fear and shame rule my life. Hallelujah.