Bridget's paying the piper, having requested a forbidden song. Whoops.
I have almost two weeks or so to wait out this music and expect my period. And yes, I'm effectively abashed, having not paid close enough attention to the instructions on the patches that tell you to use a back-up method of birth control for the first week. Which means last weekend wasn't the problem, but last month was.
So I can begin testing in about 6 days and until then I've been yanked off all medications (which I would have stopped anyway) and am going to cold-turkey my way through til Christmas because I have no idea whether I'm going to land upside down or rightside up right now. The good news is I feel fine, and I never feel fine when I'm pregnant.
We had no answers for our recklessness in therapy today, the only thing we could all seem to collectively acknowledge was that based on Jacob's spectacularly painful and very recent grief over the last two attempts at biological fatherhood, it is too soon to be gambling against the odds. Far too soon and instead of taking his knocks, Jacob attacked me verbally for writing about it. Hell, I think at that point he was attacking me for being me, for being there. I don't even know. But it's all too much too soon and I'm watching him get his hopes up while mine plummet again because right now I'm in no state to be running around this world unmedicated and the idea of having a newborn to care for when I'm so fragile frightens me.
We were less irresponsible when we weren't married to each other. You would have thought all the fallout would have taken place then. It's difficult when something you can't really seem to agree on carries such high stakes. And as much as I changed my mind when I found out I was pregnant in September, he had also changed his mind and decided he didn't want to endure the heartache involved or the physical risks I would have to face.
And here we are all over again. Him with the joy, me with the fear. And if there's anything I do know for sure it's that Jacob gets what Jacob wants. Eventually. Every time. And yet we're stuck again.
I really hope the therapist thinks we're both crazy.
But I'm absolutely not allowed to write about it anymore. So you didn't hear any of this from me. I hate being yelled at for doing something that is supposed to be beneficial. Even if it's not private.
It's easier to leave
It's easier to lie
It's harder to face ourselves at night
Feeling alone,
What have we done?
What is the monster we've become?
Where is my soul?
On a more exciting note, tickets for Switchfoot's spring tour go on sale this week. I'm so excited I could burst because seeing a band you adore play live is like....well, it's like cake. It might even be better than cake.
