Once

I've lost my third pregnancy and the little hope I held so tightly onto is quickly fading, I can barely even believe that I will ever be a mom. What is so wrong with me? I've done everything right yet I have to face this pain all over again? Loosing our son was by far the worst, holding our precious little boy, otherwise perfect but so quite, so still. I couldn't even comprehend the pain, sometimes I still can't. I quickly fell into hating myself after loosing him, I hated my body on the outside; how it echoed the body of a mother with no sign of my child. I hated my body on the inside even more; this bitter hatred I carried seethed deeply in my veins, I hated how my body failed me and even more how it failed my son.

I hated how time continued even though I could barely catch my breath.

When we got pregnant again, I thought that we could be hopeful - lightening couldn't strike twice? But I knew almost right away that something was wrong and while I held onto hope that we couldn't be facing a second loss I had barely the time to process what was going on by the time it ended. But it was never viable, I never had the chance to fall in love with all the possibilities our second pregnancy could have held.

The hatred escalated, I gained weight and over the course of two years we struggled heavily with infertility. How could my body fail me so much? I was young, healthy (even despite the weight gain) and the doctors couldn't find a thing wrong with me.

That anger, that bitter hate I carried around continued to grow. I would see parents everywhere I went treating their kids poorly, not in the ways that someone who isn't a mother judges a mother, but things that should be obvious. I've been surrounded by people who get pregnant with no effort or thought who don't do everything right (some that don't do anything right) but can still manage to bring a healthy child into this world. I'm left bewildered, wondering what could possibly be so wrong with me? What could I be doing so wrong? What have I done to deserve to not be a mother? The doctors put me on fertility drugs, hoping soon enough that I would get pregnant.

Then, on our forth and worst run with Clomid I got my positive. Oh how amazing that positive was after two and a half years of hoping and praying. I was pregnant and suddenly, that hatred for myself began to fade. This was it, now I could be happy. Now, finally, we could be happy, our little family of three - oh how I had prayed so long for this.

There was other turmoil in our lives during my third pregnancy, things that made it so incredibly difficult to remember how happy I deserved to be. I had waited so long for this pregnancy and in the short weeks I spent pregnant, I definitely didn't expect to have to drag my aching heart through another painful obstacle.

Then, as if things couldn't get any worse - as if that cold, hard floor wasn't bad enough. I started bleeding and an ultrasound confirmed my worst fears, my precious baby was dead. The one hope I had left, my one little reason to be happy, my light at the end of this terrible, miserable tunnel was gone. In that dark room every bit of happiness died. In that dark room, on a day where even the sun didn't shine and the clouds were heavy with gloom, I lost hold of every piece of my former self, that happy and free girl I used to be was gone.

Once, I was happy, truly happy and free of this weight in my heart. I don't have the slightest clue what that kind of happiness is anymore.