And yet again

Yesterday's stark single line, at thirteen days past ovulation, was enough to seal the deal for another month. I poked and prodded around my abdomen, to instigate the cramps I wasn't feeling yet, to dissuade my recklessly and stupidly hopeful heart that no, it wasn't a false negative. She hadn't got the memo at all, and it seems my physiology was late to the monthly meeting that my rational brain had called.

Sometimes it seems like my heart and my head and my body are not working in concert, aren't even speaking to one another. (Maybe there's as much tension in there as there is out here?) Sometimes that makes me more angry than anything.

I shed quiet tears as H was extra nice all afternoon, making me teas and propping pillows oh-so-delicately.

I have a big day of work lined up today, to keep me running. It's a small mercy.

I just want to start bleeding already.

Tonight it'll be a large glass of red wine, detox be damned. I fear that soon it'll call for something stronger, monthly method and post-waiting come-down both.

Even my heart isn't that naive anymore. Source.