LET'S GET RAW, FOLKS.

In light of this morning’s negative pregnancy test (which I snapped in half* and threw across the bathroom at 5 a.m. this morning), and also in view of some other thoughts I’ve been having lately, I’m considering closing this blog. I’ll attempt to illuminate the reasons below.

1. First and foremost, I’m sick of my business being everyone else’s business. The fact that everyone is up in my business is my own doing, of course. From day one I have been very open with people about the fact that we were trying, and as the months wore on without success and we ventured into fertility treatment, I continued to share our journey pretty candidly not only here but also in real life, both with close friends and also not-so-close friends. Our families know; our pastor knows; our sponsored child in Bolivia knows; even my old boss knew.

I have always been one to wear my heart on my sleeve. Philip says I’m honest to a fault (for example, when giving someone a gift of free swag I’ve received through my job as a magazine editor, I always compulsively confess that the gift is free swag that I’ve received through my job as a magazine editor). I don’t enjoy lying, I suck at lying, and I want to be known. Infertility is the biggest thing going on my life, the thing most on my mind and heart, and to not share it with people seems like I’m not revealing my true self.

However, sometimes I want a little privacy in this whole nasty business. I’m sick of explaining the damn difference between IUI and IVF. Even before I started fertility treatments, I knew the difference between an insemination and IVF.

I’m sick of being asked “where we are at” with everything and trying to come up with a succinct answer. We are not anywhere that’s easily described within a normal person’s attention span. We are somewhere in the midst of the world’s completely broken, prohibitively expensive, shockingly-low-success-rate infertility-treatment purgatory where the same tiny handful of therapies is tried on the majority of patients because doctors are satisfied with a completely BULLSHIT “diagnosis” of “unexplained” infertility.

People ask me all the time if the doctors have found anything wrong, and I despise the answer I have to give them. Yes, they’ve found a couple things wrong. My AMH hormone level is too high and I have slightly irregular ovulation, so there’s some kind of hormonal imbalance going on. And Philip’s sperms aren’t A+ either. But there’s nothing to be done about these things apparently, other than just run us through the standard treatment ringer: three medicated cycles of timed relations; three IUI cycles; IVF until you’re broke and have lost your will to live.

So that’s where we are “at” as far as treatment, but then there’s the emotional side of everything. Do you really want to hear about that? Because it’s ugly. Really fucking ugly. I’m super sad. I’m exhausted. I’m angry. I’m bitter. I’m obsessive. Being around pregnant people, even pregnant people I love dearly, makes me want to gnash my teeth, and I don’t even know what that means. I hate parties because pregnant people are always at them. I don’t want to be around my friends’ small children; I don’t want to hear all my “mommy” friends compare notes about their six-month-olds sleeping through the night; I don’t want to see or hear one more pregnancy announcement for the rest of my life.

Other people’s joy makes me jealous and upset, and I feel bad about that, and I’m sick of feeling bad about that. I dread the imminent pregnancy announcements of all my friends who currently don’t have kids, of my siblings, of my teenage cousins — even of other infertile strangers on the Internet, which is really messed up. I see statistics about age and pregnancy rates and I panic. I fight with my husband over infertility-related issues on a regular basis. I feel like I will be the last person I know to ever start a family. That is where I am at.

But of course I don’t say all of that, because I would sound like a crazy person and I would make people uncomfortable and probably a lot of people would judge me, because if you haven’t been in these infertile shoes, there is no way for you to understand, try as you may. So I have to struggle to find some acceptable answer about where we are at: a quick synopsis of where we stand as far as treatment, a brave “I’m hanging in there!” to summarize how I’m doing emotionally.

And I’m tired of doing that. For two out of every four weeks, we are just waiting. Waiting to see if something worked. Doubtful that it did. Anticipating the tears in the bathroom and the arduous rallying of emotional reserves to try again.

But during every two-week wait, everyone else is so expectant and optimistic. They have “good feelings” about this one. This will be “my year.” And I know everyone cares about me and wants this for me, and of course I don’t want to be met with my own cynicism, but I feel like a creep unless I muster a weak smile and try to act as sure and happy and hopeful as everyone else. And I’m tired of doing that.

But people’s sympathy and pity are no good either. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me and think of me as that poor Erika, who’s going through this terrible trial, and I sure do feel bad for her.

I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s talk about my job, or my trip, or my cats — or better yet, let’s please talk about you.

2. I haven’t been that honest on this blog. It’s largely for all the reasons stated above. I don’t blog anonymously, and I have a lot of readers who aren’t infertile, so I don’t want to alienate people or make them feel guilty or change people’s perception of me in any negative way. But if I can’t be honest here, what’s the point?

I started this blog to be a place to purge my feelings, but it’s not a safe space for me to do that. Too many people who I interact with on a daily basis have access to it. People at my workplace, including my new boss, could easily enough find it via Twitter or Instagram. (One of the best things about my new boss, by the way, is the fact that he doesn’t know about my infertility, so it doesn’t color his perception of me at all. The pity, the morbid curiosity, just aren’t there, which is amazing.)

But if I can’t share it openly, that’s a problem too. I want readers; I want this space to mean something. So I keep walking this line, and even that is exhausting. I want to just verbally dump — and I think my infertile readers want that too. Otherwise it’s too neatly packaged; the pretty bow tied around everything where I say, It’s all okay; I’m learning and growing so much from this experience, makes it feel disingenuous and makes me sound way stronger and more at peace with everything than I really am, and in turn makes my words unrelatable to the readers who come around looking to see that we’re all struggling and lost, and that’s normal, so at least we’re not alone. But I don’t feel the freedom to do that.

3. This blog hasn’t fostered the community I’d hoped it would. So many of the other infertile bloggers I read, and whose Twitter/Instagram accounts I follow, seem to have found these incredible support systems online — to the point where they’re sending each other care packages in the mail — and I have not found that at all. Even though I’ve been at this TTC business for 2.5 years now, I still feel like the new kid at school going, Hey guys, can I sit at your lunch table? And all the seats are taken.

Again, this is probably my own doing. I’m not honest enough here. I don’t write posts often enough. I don’t comment on other people’s blogs enough. I don’t belong to any message boards; I don’t volunteer for Resolve; I don’t post pictures of my pregnancy tests on Twitter asking if anyone else can make out an evaporation line.

And a lot of that is due to reasons I’ve already stated, as well as other insecurities. I feel too bogged down in my own story and misery to be a voice ringing out for advocacy and community. I applied to be a contributing blogger at The Infertility Voice and never heard a peep, which made me feel like a failure and an outsider. Plus I just don’t have the time to be keeping up with all of the above. I’ve got my non-virtual life to attend to: work, social engagements, time with Philip, time with family, chores, car shopping. I want to make a scrapbook for Carmen. I have trouble prioritizing it all.

I realize that everyone who does keep up with all the Internet “TTC sisterhood” friendship maintenance has all of those real-life commitments too, so I’m just making excuses. And thankfully, I’ve got a handful of friends in the flesh who are also going through infertility, so I don’t think the need for me to find support through online means is as great.

But still, it’s felt tough and frustrating to try to break into the conversation, and keeping up with the blog often feels like an extra chore/burden, especially when I spend time on a post and don’t really get any comments. If what I’m saying isn’t prompting anyone to respond or interact, was it really worth saying?

4. I’m not sure why people come here. Again, I’ve touched on this already, but just to elucidate a little more: I know people are reading. I see in my blog stats that some days I get as many as 40 or 50 page views. But because of the lack of interaction, I don’t really know if people are finding what they’re looking for.

I suspect that what brings a lot of people back is the constant curiosity of: Is she gonna get pregnant this time? It’s a nice little literary device, suspense, and I’ve got this handy ongoing conflict that keeps my story juicy, but to those genuinely interested in me because they care about me, I say: I’m tired of disappointing you month after month, and to the voyeurs: I don’t want to be here purely for anyone’s entertainment. That said, I do want my writing to be entertaining, but more than that, I want it to be helpful.

I had a vision once for starting a website that would be the Style Me Pretty of infertility sites. While sharing my own story, I could also share inspirational images and quotes, fur-baby galleries, suggestions for weekend getaways, and helpful advice related to infertility. It would be a place for everyone to come together, as there doesn’t seem to be one central resource. I discovered recently that Baby Hopeful is kind of already doing this to an extent. And of course, every infertile alive knows about Stirrup Queens’ comprehensive blog roll.

I still think my idea is a good one, but it’s one that requires more time (and, frankly, more heart) than I have to give it. Life presented me with an exciting new job, not a dead end that might lead to a freelance career with more time for personal projects. And since I still feel so (at worst) bitter, miserable and (at best) ambivalent about infertility, it’s hard to imagine creating something beautiful and positive out of this experience.

Which, of course, makes the whole ordeal seem that much more pointless. I met a girl at a big work conference last December, and of course, I shared that I was infertile. (Why not broadcast it to the masses?) She told me she had struggled for four years to get pregnant and did several failed IUIs. All the while, she was wrestling with God over it and trying to find His purposes. Finally she felt she had a spiritual breakthrough, and soon afterward she got pregnant on her own. She now has two daughters. She told me, “Never waste a good trial; press into God.”

I feel I am wasting this trial. I can’t find the redemption in this. I can’t find the lessons I’m supposed to be learning. I can barely even face God. I thought maybe this blog had something to do with the “reason” behind it all — comforting others with the comfort I have received from God and all that — but I don’t really see that happening, and I don’t have a vision for it.

5. I think it might be nice to have privacy as we begin the IVF process. Circling back to number one, at the moment I’m very attracted to the idea of doing IVF in private. When people ask me where we are at, I could just say we’re taking a break — no having to explain the meds I’m on or report on the quality of our embryos.

No follow-up questions like, When will you know if it worked? and, What are you going to do with all the embryos you don’t transfer? No having to hear people use the wrong terminology like eggs being “harvested” or embryos being “implanted.” No having to advise single friends on whether or not it’s prudent to freeze your eggs (so tired of being a cautionary tale, and they’ll probably have no issues getting pregnant at 40 anyway) or how much that costs (I don’t know). No pressure to tell the waiting world the results. Sharing our news — whatever it is — at our discretion and at our own pace.

It all sounds like such a dream right now, like such a giant relief. Of course, I’m reacting to my current disappointment. A full year of treatment. Infinite pills, shots, blood draws, speculums and vaginal ultrasounds. Thousands and thousands of dollars. And I’ve got nothing to show for it. FUCK THAT. I’m ready to throw out the baby with the bath water. Delete the blog; fire the doctor. Go into deep hiding.

And of course, there’s the valiant argument for infertility awareness: The more I share my story, the more the world will understand, and the less ostracized future infertiles will feel. But I just can’t worry about those poor future infertiles right now, as, wet-faced, I cradle my little broken heart in my hands at 7:51 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

* To be perfectly honest, the test would not neatly snap into two pieces the way you see fresh celery do in commercials. Instead, the hard plastic basically folded in half, which was not nearly as satisfying. And the results still read just as clearly.