Everyone around me is pregnant. Or has spent the last 9 months being pregnant. Or is Instagramming their babies. It’s hard. It’s hard to be happy for everyone. I know its totally unreasonable and completely selfish, but I’m really struggling to feign interest and excitement for people.
My social media is filled with bumps and babies. A few work colleagues have been busy thrusting new baby photos in my direction, and I know I’m expected to “Ooh” and “Aaah” and ask “What did she weigh?”, “Was it a long labour?” when really – I couldn’t give a shit. It’s not MY pregnancy, its not MY labour, it’s certainly not MY baby. I’m still waiting here at back at page 1 while you’re on your 3rd bloody book so, take your happiness and shove it!
Oh OK, I don’t mean that. Not all the time anyway. I AM happy for people, of course I am. I’m not the devil incarnate, I’m not a horrible person, it’s just that occasionally my happiness is slightly overshadowed by my – well – my jealousy.
Because that’s what it is isn’t it? I’m jealous. I can admit it. I’m jealous of the people that have 3 babies, and of the people that “accidentally ” fell pregnant and the people that shove every stage of their growing bumps on Facebook. I’m jealous of the people that never struggled. And I’m jealous of the people that don’t know the pain of miscarriage.
Why did I have to be one of the women that experienced this? I never wanted any of this. I’m just a girl that wanted baby with her husband.