I would like to give you something palatable and or eloquent, however at this point, I cannot.  Largely as I am not a professional writer! Instead, I am someone who has some things to say. It is not palatable, I have to tell you, because in an attempt to get pregnant I had my ex- husband's blood injected into my veins (IVF procedure) and have had traumatic miscarriage's. It is not palatable, as I am still angry and defensive, evidenced in this, my story, correction: My story so far.

If you can 'bear with me' a little longer, whilst I am writing about some of what being childless is not. I will eventually get to telling you how some of it is. I do not believe it happens for a reason. Despite having been placated with this old favourite that tends to makes me ask myself 'what reason could that be’? Then knowing better I still at times, turn that comment inwards and internalise the shame of not being able or good enough in some way. 

What I have also asked myself is 'why do some people turn away from this issue of childlessness’? At times I can understand an effort to help or an inability to know what else to say, solutions can be a go to and can seem to the other like a loving gesture. Then at other times when I hear these, they feel like a kick where it hurts. Solutions coming at me, like adoption and trying again, all of which I have considered. I am exhausted, too exhausted to explain myself authentically again. I wish that I wasn't, but I am, consistent and mammoth disappointment has a way of wearing one down.

Now that you have allowed me to pass through the gates of resentment. Enter: How it is, the sad and heart breaking truth, that I can hardly bear myself. I can remember as a young girl and not in a socially constructed sense. I was soft and big-hearted, like most of us. In that soft heart there was a reservation being made. A space reserved for one, possibly more. I filled that space with a special kind of love over the years, love made of me. I cherished, nurtured and kept this love for a child on the quiet. It was sacred after all, a precious protected space, rather than something I was able to articulate.

It was relationship that I was ready for. I had done some of the usual and read child rearing books. One of which is unlined and tattered and I gave up some toxic people and behaviours in preparation for 'the arrival'. I tucked away some personal knowledge, life lessons that I would share and however unrealistic, I thought about the kind of mother I wanted to be. I waited, my child/ren never came....

I now try to accept with some very good help, that this seat will always be empty. I am coming to accept that this relationship is over and I need to re-build again. This is grief that I am describing, I suppose. As hard as it is to take a hold of. I oscillate between pangs of pain and disbelief to gut wrenching, dripping, heaving moments of surrender. Then, to times of peace and hope that it might just be ok 'this life' as my mother says bless her, this "different kind of life”. Having gained some strength, I pick myself up and face what my life is made up of today. 

Fortunately I do not have to look very far. Brilliant things have come to me in my 46 years and I am loved, by some incredible people. Having been truly privileged in many ways. So, although I will never hear words 'I love you mum'. I am also reminded of some of the other words that I can hear now too. That of my sisters and brothers, those who have gone before me on this journey and those that are doing it now. Who say 'We have got you, you can tell us, rest here' and I say 'Thank you. I love you'.  As I learn that love comes in different forms and re-pivot (sorry I usually hate that term!) and learn what other potentialities lie behind the new door. 

Melanie Craige