Eve

I. am. miserable.

I've held out this month, waiting to test until Friday morning, 14 dpo. They say it's good to do this, that you shouldn't test early to save money, to avoid the disappointment of the false negative or the chemical pregnancy.

I have made it thus far, and now, on the eve of testing again, I am miserable.

Half of me (who are we kidding . . . 95% of me) is so hopeful. Surely out timing was good this month. Surely the crazy intense O pain I felt on the left side on Thursday and on the right side on Friday of the day TH left meant that my body is working correctly. Surely the signs I've been feeling this week mean something. Surely the unusual temps indicate an unusual outcome. For the last 24 hours (5 days? week? two weeks? month?) I've envisioned seeing something different on that stupid stick. I can see me smile. I can feel the butterflies that would burst into my stomach. I can hear TH's incredulous response. I can imagine our lives changing, our to-do list suddenly exploding, our plans for telling our families at Christmas suddenly realized.

And then the other half, the strong 5%, laughs cruelly, makes me ask myself, "What the fuck are you thinking? Why would this month be any different than the others? Why would you get your hopes up? Why are you so naive, so stupid?" And I remember that I should be hoping for the best but preparing for the worst, and so I try to prepare myself for the same result I've seen since July, I try to remember what it feels like to see that single line, to remember how far my heart falls, to remember what it feels like to crawl into myself so far I don't even cry, I just hide and hurt, so much so that the only way to survive the pain is to wrap a hardened shell around me, a shell that won't let my pain overwhelm and drown me. It's this other half that tells me I'm a fool for hoping.

So here I am, on the eve of testing, again. And I am miserable. I fear tomorrow morning. I fear the tremble I know will be in my hands when unwrapping the stupid test. I fear the wait, the three minutes I can hear my heart beating in my ears. I fear what comes after the wait.

I'm on the eve of taking a test that I have failed four times already, despite every effort on my part to pass.

I'm on the eve of a twisted wedding ceremony where the bride doesn't know if the groom will show up until she's standing at the altar . . . an altar I've been left alone at four times already.

Why do I keep showing up to the stupid altar? Why do I keep believing this time will be different, that this time the groom will be there to meet me, that this time I'll pass the test?

And then, miserable, I remember that despite the outcome, it's better to hope. It feels better to allow yourself the pleasure of the "what if." It feels better to not wallow, to not accept another defeat before you know for sure one way or the other. It feels better to be happy and hopeful and optimistic. So I allow myself to go down that path again. And then I remember that path has brought me nothing but disappointment. And I talk myself out of it. And become miserable once again.

I will test tomorrow. I owe it to myself to hope. But I dread the testing as well. Because I can't imagine anything but another no.