"I detest the fragile, morose person I've become. Even as I inhabit the skin of this humorless women, I never lose sight of the fact that this is not a person I want to be around. I resent her unfailingly dark mood. Her brooding. Her tentativeness, indecisiveness, her lack of resilience. I not only find her self absorption exhausting, but feel no sympathy for her, with her constant thoughts of me, me, me."

-An Empty Lap by Jill Smolowe

I could have written these exact words myself time and time over so I find it somewhat comforting to find them, exactly as they have crossed through my brain, spilling out of the pages of someone else's despair. At least I'm normal.....at least I'm normal.....at least I'm normal.........it is my only comforting mantra as of late.

Besides the jealousy I think the change brought about by infertility that cuts the deepest is my feeling of overall incompetence. I've always had my insecurities just like everyone else - maybe more than average at times but certainly nothing abnormal. In many areas I felt quite confident and competent, secure in my attributes and abilities. But that precious confidence is dissolving, bubbling up and vanishing layer by layer.

My anxiety creates in me a timidness, a bumbling unsteadiness which then serves to make me question my competence, thereby undermining my confidence. I am anxious because I never know what will send me over the edge - an innocent comment from a pregnant friend, a question like "when are you going to have kids?" from an unsuspecting acquaintance, a chance reunion at the grocery store with a former high school classmate, her darling toddlers in tow, still looking as thin and vibrant as she did the day we graduated.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored walls of the elevator I rode up to the fertility clinic's fourth floor offices yesterday. Dressed for work in what I used to think were at least semi-flattering khakis and and a decidedly unflattering Girl Scouts t-shirt, I shuddered as I took in the woman staring back at me. Overweight, droopy, lifeless......and worst of all, childless. When recounting this event to Randy he wondered what a childless person looks like and how that could factor into my physical image of myself. The key is that I would give myself more leeway if I had a child. Maybe I am overweight, droopy, tired - but at least I have a child. I'd be fulfilling my dream/purpose/responsibility - and that can go a long way in making up for a host of outward deficiencies in the quest for self esteem.

I never expected my self esteem to be so intertwined with my ability to become a mother. In fact, I remember reading about the "I'm less of a woman" woes of infertile women and thinking they were being silly. Now I understand - and I think its innate and chemical - a useful trait for a species that hinges their continued existence on procreation. And for me at least, its not about being less of a physical woman - I'm realistic about medical problems and don't attribute any mystical or magical qualities to the process of a sperm fertilizing an egg. For me the shame and self deprecation lie more in the realm of my (so far) failure to actually be a mother, through whatever means.

Not being a mother or even a potential mother at this point excludes me from a club I desperately want to belong to. Well meaning friends and family have told me that no club exists and I shouldn't worry about it. And while I am bright enough to understand the basic obviousness that there is no overarching organization with membership dues and monthly meetings, I also know that there is, indeed, a club of sorts, and that I don't qualify for it. Women who have children (much like co-members of a club) naturally gravitate to each other and easily become embroiled in conversations that inadvertently exclude me. Mothers and new mothers especially are cherished and given special privileges such as a holiday to celebrate their existence, a premium designated parking spot at the mall, and special concessions because they deserve it - they are working so hard. Women who are or have ever been pregnant share a camaraderie that calls to mind the friendships of old combat buddies - and you wouldn't understand because you haven't been there - is the unspoken (or sometimes spoken loudly) message that any infertile woman feels written upon her soul.

And like the awkward 13-year-old I imagine has crawled into my skin and invaded my consciousness, I don't hate this elusive club of cool kids - I covet it, I sensationalize it, and more than anything I just want to be accepted into it. All of my pain and feelings of rejection can be erased if I can just get in. I don't even care about the other rejects back at the infertility lunch table. I'll abandon them in a heartbeat if it means admittance to the club. That is how fragile my self esteem has become.