All of the What Ifs

{"Isolation by Irene Langholm, DeviantArt}

I was fine until they started getting anecdotal.  My pregnancy was like this.  My labor was this long.  My baby weighed this.  Then I went from neutral to back again.  Back to the place where I can't have the pregnancy I want.  To where I have NO idea how badly I could spiral.  To where I can't just find out I'm pregnant on a Sunday afternoon.  Where I have to sit with specialists who carefully taper down my medications and tell me exactly when to copulate.  

It feels devoid of joy.  All worry, no whimsy.  All business, no discovery.  I know I'm front loading the experience, but how can I not?  I'm walking right into a circumstance that could hospitalize me.  Purposefully.  Because I totally can't wait to be psychotic again.  And have it affect another being as well.  

I wonder if I would just let it ride, without Ed's sweet eagerness.  I don't think I would.  I think I would want to eventually.  Maybe I would reach about 37 and say wait a minute, this is something I want to struggle for.  But right now, testing the waters, knowing it's ahead, feels like hopelessness.

So many people are worse off, which make me feel even WORSE about all my brooding.  But then again they weren't in that bed, in that hospital, looking at that orderly, yelling things down the hallway.

My life is "normal" now.  I'm the best I've ever been.  Of course I want to stay there.  

That whimsical Sunday afternoon is my Disney dream.  And no amount of wishing upon a star can make it happen without repercussion.