Having children does not cure infertility. Yes, having children is the end goal. And yes, my God, it is worth every single injection, hormone, tear, negative pregnancy test, miscarriage, etc. But, once you’ve been deemed infertile, it is a part of who you are.

On the outside it probably seems like I wear infertility like a badge of honor; and in a lot of ways I do. I fought an uphill battle, wanted to quit so many times, but I didn’t. I survived years fertility treatments and abuse on my body and psyche, just like so many other women in this community. It’s not something any of us ask for, but it’s something for us to feel proud of.

So on the outside, I appear proud and strong. But, on the inside there is a completely different narrative going on. Since finding out I was the reason we couldn’t conceive naturally, I’ve carried an anger with me. I’m angry with myself; with my body for being so fucked up that I can’t do the one thing that our bodies are designed to do.

I joke with my husband that between my horrific eye sight, scoliosis, and inability to bear children, I’d be the first picked off if it were survival of the fittest. If it were the olden days, I’d just be running into shit, all crooked, not contributing to growing the human race — making everyone around me extremely uncomfortable. However; I do have abnormally strong legs, so they might throw me into some sort of physical labor sector where I could work along side the men.

As much as I genuinely do find a lot of that idea funny, the idea of being incapable of having children without the help of an entire medical staff, stings a bit.

I didn’t even realize I was holding onto this anger toward myself until the past few weeks. While I was in the thick of battling postpartum depression after the birth of my son, I was on 100 mg. of Zoloft. Thank God for antidepressants, alongside therapy, because it truly saved me. The beauty of an antidepressant is that it numbs a lot of negative emotions when you’re incapable of dealing with them. And trust me, I was in no place to even think about processing anything I had gone through at that point.

Around seven months postpartum, with the okay from my doctor, I decided it was time to start lowering my dosage. I started slowly cutting my doses, while regularly checking in with my doctor. I went from 100 mg. to my current dose of 25 mg.

During the course of weaning down my antidepressant, something started happening that I didn’t expect. Really difficult events that took place leading up to, and after the birth of my son, started flooding back into my mind. I had pushed so many painful things down so far, and blocked them out, that I genuinely forgot they had even happened.

It started with a flashback to a team of anesthesiologists being unable to place my spinal for my c-section. What was supposed to be a quick and seemingly painless process, turned into over an hour of searing pain. The team eventually had to call the head of the department to bring in an ultrasound machine, so he could see internally where my spine curved so that the needle could be inserted correctly. And still, with the ultrasound and most experienced anesthesiologist, it took several attempts. This was by far the most painful thing my body had ever endured.

And why couldn’t they place the spinal? Here’s a shocker; it was my body’s fault. I have a pretty aggressive “S” curve in my spine. It just so happened that it curved in the exact places the spinal could be placed.

Oh, and just to throw some salt on the wound, I begged for them to put me under, but they couldn’t. Why couldn’t they? This going to completely blow your mind; IT WAS MY BODY’S FAULT! I had such severe preeclampsia that I had just undergone a magnesium treatment prior to entering the O.R. The magnesium was administered through an IV to prevent me from having a seizure or stroke during my c-section. The magnesium makes you feel like your skin is melting off of your body while you’re simultaneously having a heart attack. Super cute, I know. Because of the trauma to my body, it wasn’t safe for me or the baby to be put under for the procedure.

Okay, first flashback hit, and it was a doozy. This is when my anxiety started rearing its ugly head and I began to spiral. All of a sudden I remembered that I was on a magnesium drip for 24 hours after delivery, that made me so weak and sick, I couldn’t hold my son. And then I thought of how I kept hemorrhaging for six weeks postpartum, only to find that I had retained placenta for a second time. And then once I was finally beginning to heal physically, my fucking mind went.

Once these memories started flooding back, clear as day, so did the anger; and along with anger came guilt and shame. To be clear, I’m not angry that these things happened to me. I’m angry with myself for being unable to avoid them; for not being strong enough to have a healthy pregnancy, a healthy labor and delivery, and a healthy postpartum.

And why do I feel shame and guilt and anger towards myself? Because all of this was my doing. I’m the infertile one. I am the reason my daughter was born not breathing and spent her first days in the NICU. My body did that. I am the reason my son was born prematurely and then didn’t get the skin-on-skin he deserved. All of this was because my body failed not just me, but my children. What a mind fuck.

No one held a gun to my head and made me to IVF. I chose to go that route, and here I was flirting with danger, not once, but twice.

Now I realize how dramatic that may sound, but it’s the way I’ve been feeling since I was diagnosed infertile. I’ve been angry and ashamed. I’ve just been sweeping it all under the rug. Unfortunately, sweeping your repressed feelings under the rug, just makes for one lumpy-ass rug.

Right now I’m in the trenches of processing this journey, but one thing I’ve quickly discovered is that infertility is a part of who I am. It didn’t go away after the birth of my children and it’s doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere in the near future. So it’s time to bust out the broom and pull up the rug.