Infertility: the loneliness paradox.

In the last few weeks, I've dipped a toe in the 'infertility twitter scene' as I'm calling it. A community of people, women and men, where we have all found an outlet for our struggles, our pain, our hopes, our devastation; where we can express ourselves freely, and anonymously, and make connections that offer support and solidarity.

As I've started to interact, I've found myself gravitating towards certain tweeps (is that still a thing?) and have struck up a rapport with other women on a similar journey to me. What this has made me realise is that I was seeking connection and understanding in a way that my own community of real-life friends and family could not offer. 

After my first miscarriage, looking back, it felt easier to be open about the devastation I felt. It felt acceptable to be distraught after a strike of bad luck, after all, losing a baby is recognised as one of life's greatest sadnesses. The support group around me was large (I'm going to gloss over the unhelpful well-meaning comments - but I heartily recommend anyone to read Alice Rose's 'Think! What Not To Say') and I felt 'permitted' to spend a little time wallowing in my own grief. 

The expectation after a miscarriage is that it will be soon followed by a healthy pregnancy to help smooth away the emotional scars. Six years on, I have felt my support group shrink and then shrink again. But I don't wish to do my friends and family a disservice: yes, there are some friends that have naturally ebbed away (that happens to us all, right?) but, with every failed IVF, every new attempt at a 'fix', every visit to an overpriced quack or dubiously-credentialled spiritualist, I've found it harder and harder to continue confiding in the people around me.

During our first IVF cycle, we confided in our core friends and fam group. Why wouldn't we? It was all supposed to work out. What I hadn't bargained for was the 'hurdles' that IVF brings; the key milestones of egg collection, fertilisation, embryo development etc. etc. I didn't anticipate how hard I would find it, how much pressure I would perceive, being constantly asked where we were in the cycle. Of course friends and fam would want to know - that's them being interested and engaged in our journey; trying to understand what we were going through. But, after a while, it didn't feel like that. It felt like a burden of having to constantly explain and I grew frustrated that people would ask questions that could have easily been answered by Google. How ungrateful was I!

Of course, none of this would have mattered if we'd achieved the result we so hoped for, but the dreaded Test Day yielded nothing more than disappointment and, of course, we had to find a way to tell everyone we'd confided in. And, on top of our own sorrow, we faced the sadness of our loved ones - who, like any support group would, were all willing us to succeed and therefore shared in the disappointment. I will never forget sobbing uncontrollably into my mum's bosom knowing that she too was fighting back tears. I didn't want to put her through that again.

After that, we chose to keep our cycles confidential. Of course, people aren't stupid - there are subtle indicators that we're 'going again' but, after a while, the non-drinking, non-having-fun and non-living-life-normally became our norm - so people stopped actively noticing (an assumption, I know). And, of course, the increasing awkwardness about our lack of success continued, so people, understandably, stopped asking too. (And, those who did ask were greeted with an awkward shuffle and vague 'we're considering our options' brush off).

And then there's the people I've subconsciously shrunk away from. Like avoiding the awkwardness of being perpetually infertile when many friends are either mothers or pregnant. For the record, it's not what you think - in fact I'm very fond of spending time with my friends' children - rather it's because I think I make them feel awkward, which makes me feel awkward. And then there are my friends who are (for want of a better phrase) socially infertile. They haven't met their 'one' but are aware of the biological clock ticking. Yes, we have childlessness in common but our experiences are very different. I feel they look at me and think 'well at least you have the chance to try for a baby' and I look at them and think 'I KNOW that I can't have my own genetic baby; you still might'.

And... I'M SO BORED OF MY OWN MISERY. I can't even be bothered to bore others with it any more. So, all in all, my circle of friends has reduced considerably because I've simply run out of things to say.

So, here we are on our first donor egg cycle. We confided in a small number of people that we were going to do it, but didn't, in the main, disclose when or how. So, apart from a few very select confidantes (and definitely NOT our parents), we're alone in this journey.

Now here's the paradox.

I have never felt so isolated. I'm left in my own head, with all my wild imaginings and little to distract me.  Of course Husb is with me in this journey but he's struggling with his own grief and I try hard (but mostly fail) not to load him up with my sorrow as well. I feel lonely. I miss my friends. I miss my old life. I want the comfort of company. But I still want it on my terms. I want to share my journey in my own way, with people I know will care enough to listen and be sensible enough to say nothing more than 'I know this is shit, I know there's nothing I can do but I'm here for you no matter what'. I want to share it with people who won't inwardly be comparing my life to theirs, like it's a competition. I want to share it with people who aren't secretly judging me. I want to share it with people who don't feel awkward asking how I am or how things are going, giving me the freedom to share what I feel comfortable with, without backing me into a corner. That's where my counsellor has been amazing and, that's why it's been a comfort getting to 'know' people through twitter - learning that I'm not alone in my feelings and, more importantly, I'm learning so much about other perspectives that I maybe had not considered before. It's been both mind-opening and a welcome distraction.

So, thank you twitter friends. And thank you 'real' friends - because, even though I can't talk to you about this right now, I know that you're still rooting for me and that, when I'm ready to come out from under my rock, you'll be there with a gin & tonic and a hug.