To my laughing friends,
I know I’m been in a settled relationship, don’t marvel at my sensibility or control.
I know I’m a woman in her mid-twenties, don’t tell me there’s plenty of time.
I know you’re all blessed with children, don’t say I’m the lucky one.
I know I sometimes wince at your descriptions of your “accidental” pregnancies, don’t hate me for it.
I know becoming pregnant before finishing my degree will delay matters, stop telling me so.
You don’t know that my condition may prevent me from ever having children, don’t force the subject when I change it.
You don’t know how I would sell my soul for the chance.
Forgive me.
For the oversensitivity, the snappiness, the mood swings.
For being flippant when you talk about your children.
For being unsympathetic about your periods.
I haven’t had one in so long you see, it’s hard to sympathise.
I’m sure it must be frustrating to have to plan extra underwear every month.
I’m sure it must be horrifying for you to miss one.
You say it’s like your uterus is punishing you for not being pregnant. You don’t see it’s reminding you there’s a chance.
I can’t tell you that every month I’m reminded of my failure. That what comes so inconveniently to you seems like a dream to me.
I can’t tell you how I need you to forgive me, so that in time I can learn to forgive myself.
Philippa Anderson