The New Black

Wednesday evening saw me on all fours on the kitchen floor sobbing as silently as I could. This is certainly not my usual Wednesday night activity. But I’m guessing it isn’t an altogether uncommon experience for an almost 40 year old woman with polycystic ovarian disease, three unsuccessful IVF attempts in her recent history and some weight gain issues to deal with. Top that with work stress and not looking after yourself and I reckon a bit of a sob was in order.

The hands and knees thing was purely about pain control. It’s likely a cyst was bursting right about the time I figured the floor was the place to be. But the sobs were about the whole raft of things listed above. The sobs were me sick of being in pain, me grieving not being a mother yet, me wondering if motherhood for me will always be to furry, four-legged babies, and me feeling so much like a failed wife that I had to do it quietly so CJ couldn’t hear me. Of course, I also didn’t want CJ to see me in that state because I knew he’d want to take me to hospital and I’d just worked all day in a hospital and I sure as shit didn’t want to go back.

The next day, with the help of one of the most beautiful medical practitioners I’ve ever met, I was also able to realise that I never sob in front of CJ and perhaps I should. I mean, it’s all well and good being tough and showing the world the amazing, resilient me, but if my own husband isn’t allowed to see the wailing, breaking, grieving, angrifying me, then who the hell is? Aye, but there’s the rub.

So Friday morning saw us sitting at the breakfast bar together and me howling in CJs arms. CJ is a tall, broad man who gives the best hug this side of the known universe. It turns out that being wrapped up in those arms when executing crying of the wracking sobs kind is extraordinarily comforting. (Note to self: choose husband over kitchen floor for future emotional breakdowns.) I felt proud of myself for crying like that in front of him. Even he commented that he’d never heard me cry that hard before. I felt sad then, because I have cried that hard in the last two years, several times. Obviously I chose to do it alone.

Well, no more. Just like fluorescent yellow is the new black, my husband is the new kitchen floor. Lucky husband.

And I’m ok now, I’m good now. I spent hours just talking with my best friend today. And I could feel CJs love stretching out to me, out through our front door, down the road, up around the corner and right into the caf√© where I sat; like a beam of light, full of grace, ready to guide me home.



Filed under Beauty, Boobs, Bums, Family, Friends, Health, Humour, Inspirational, IVF, Love, Sex, Weight Loss, Women/Feminist, Writing

6 responses to “The New Black

  1. Wendy Yarnold

    Beautifully written Simonne! xxx


  2. Beautiful and brave. You have always been so. Remember that your husband has probably been taking his emotional cues from you, seeing you release them at last will allow him to better connect with his own feelings regarding this situation. My heart goes out to you. Try to be kind to yourself and take it slow. It must be very tough.


  3. Dawn

    So glad Chris wins out over floor. Good choice. I’m glad you feel better now and the best part is that when those times come again (and they will) you can go straight to Chris. I’m sure there is a light – we just didn’t realise what an incredibly long tunnel it turned out to be. Xxx


  4. sandybarker

    A frank and moving account of being you.


  5. PG

    Oh honey, such a beautifully crafted post about something so sad, but healing too. Yes those big, raw, vulnerable tears are hard fucking work. So good on you!!!!! Although I know this story, reading it here made me cry with you anew. Love you xoxox


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