Not the counsellor – she was very nice.
I wasn’t pregnant a month ago and I’m not pregnant now. Nothing terrible has happened. Nothing dramatic has changed.But it’s like the switch marked ‘Emma’ has flicked and I can’t get it back on. Things to do. But I can’t quite reach.
A whisper that crashes like a wave:
Your body doesn’t work. You – don’t work. The embryo didn’t implant because your womb, like the rest of you, is a bit crap. Sad and stopped. Empty as your brain. A tape that keeps replaying: You threw away your life on an eating disorder – and you got another chance- but the chance; whatever it was, has gone. You stuffed it up. And you’re broken again only this time, you don’t get back up. A shucked oyster without the pearl.
Not fulfilling a purpose. Use-less.
And worse. Faithless. Unable to deal with even the slightest bit of pain.
I wrote a book about grace in brokenness. And I know that my Redeemer liveth. But I’m tired. I’m not like Joni or Elizabeth Elliot. Women who know what it is to suffer; whose faith burns brighter in darkness.
I’m not like them. My flame is flickering. I’m just keeping going. Not singing. Not praying. Not praising. Not – useful.
But maybe that’s the heart of this.
The need to be needed. I’m not Brainy – I say to myself – or Thin or Beautiful. But I got this: Necessary. I’m Useful. I can Do Things.
Except, right now, I can’t. And that’s what grates.
The baying boss is not from up above but deep within. God is a Father – not a heavenly line manager. I get this. And I want to be a daughter. But it hurts to be sacked.