The Intoxication of Hope

Hope--it is what I am filled with right now.  It is what I am filled with every time I stop grieving my last unsuccessful cycle after that damn period had to come and snatch every morsel of optimism away.  I imagine her cackling wickedly as she does so, that little bitch!  Tearing apart my dreams and insides every time.

But hope is what comes after the tears are gone.  We begin doing everything we "should".  Prescribed sex which is sometimes sensual and enjoyable as it should be and unfortunately, sometimes more like a chore because we are tired after a long day of work.  Still, it needs to be done.  I begin taking the OPKs and charting my temperature, waiting to confirm that my body is showing any signs of fertility whatsoever.  I dream of my little bean, coaxing it to come down this time, right into my womb, we are ready!  (This session of conversing with my unborn child, of course, is followed by a long bout of assuring myself that I am absolutely not insane.)  And then, after the ultra sexy act of peeing on a stick, I finally get the smiley face and we venture eagerly to the boudoir.

That sexual encounter is always full of hope.  There is no chore here, we are ready to do this, and we are ready to do this right!  As we stare into each others eyes, we seem to get lost in the hope surging through the other.  If eyes are the window to one's soul, then at these moments I can see right into his soul, flooded with hope and promise.

Then, we wait.  We wait two weeks.  It is unbearable.  I feel every twinge and every last one makes me think this is it!  That is my little bean burrowing into my uterus!

The feeling of this hope is intoxicating.  At times I flashback to wild college nights where I, all smiles and lighthearted laughs, downed a line of shots with good friends.  We were carefree, loving every minute of the experience.  I was there to soak it in.  And just as if I were laying out in my bikini, I let every inch of myself be slathered with unadulterated happiness.  That is exactly what it feels like now, only my drug of choice is now hope.  I am drunk with hope, high on the idea of a potential conception.  Still, just as I experienced when I was younger while knocking 'em back and dancing on bars, a familiar choking feeling inevitably rises in my throat.  My stomach turns, I grimace.  This was not all I thought it was going to be.  It is not the carefree ride I signed up for, I think.  Luckily, (or unluckily, if I were dreaming of morning sickness), I am not about to hurl into a toilet or trash can as I have on those nights of wild binge drinking.  But it feels very much the same.

Hope is intoxicating and it can transport me to the highest, most blissful places.  But at times, it also makes me miserably ill.  Why would I be hopeful? I begin to ask myself.  What is the point?  And then, I lay, draped over a pile of pillows rather than a trash can, purging myself of that which once took over my body.  Now the toxic thoughts that barrage my mind leave a bitter taste in my mouth and I wonder if this low is worth the high.  I remember a time where these moments only came after I confirmed that my lovely period had indeed arrived.  But now, they can come at any time.  It is not enough to make me want to give up hope, but it always makes me second guess how I let myself get that inebriated.  

I am sure I will continue getting wasted on the sweet stuff.  Rough nights never stopped me before.  For hope is intoxicating, even if it is ultimately nauseating.  Maybe one of these days I'll learn how to hold my hope and maybe, just maybe once the smile and laughter will remain and the outcome will be beautiful!  My beautiful little bean!