In reality I don’t blog because sometimes it’s like ripping the band aid off the scab. And though I try to convince myself that the scab is thick, and hard, and calloused over, that’s not true either.
I believe that the infertility scab is one that doesn’t heal over, and it’s one that peels back with the slightest pulling. And so, I don’t write because I prefer to pretend that the scab isn’t there anymore.
Yet today, less than 24 hours after my grandmother passed away, and less than 24 hours after we were told that a birth mother had picked us, only to be told hours later that she changed her mind and picked someone else, I’m ripping the band aid off.
Because one thing I know to do when something in me breaks is to hold up a mirror so that others can see that the places they have broken aren’t wounds that only they know, so that others can know that it’s ok to reveal the raw scabs under their band aids of pretense.
You see I know.
I know the harshness of a reality that doesn’t work out time and time again, and then again and again. I know how it hurts to hope. I know how it feels to dangle your feet off the ledge of no return – ready to give up.
And I know what it’s like to be out of tears. To have the band aid ripped off, and this time to feel the disappointment so deeply that you feel nothing at all.
And I also know that somehow, through something no less than a miracle, still we find a way to get up in the morning and do what has to be done. We get up and we start over. And I know that sometimes we need to just rip the band aid off in order to do so, even though it exposes the tenderest of wounds underneath.