Writing has always been a relief for me. In high school and college I was akin to Harriet the Spy (without the spy?) and carried a notebook everywhere I went. I’d fill a composition book in a matter of weeks. I have boxes in the garage of dozens and dozens of journals filled to the brim with the woes of my adolescence.

I don’t know how or why I started writing. It just seemed to be an outlet that worked for me and I stuck with it. When my words hit the page, my burden is suddenly lighter. Thus I quickly became addicted to writing as a way of personal therapy.

My friend Holland is in town and we were able to meet for lunch today. We always have the best talks and had an interesting discussion today about what I post and don’t post on my blog. Is there a line to be drawn and if so, where is it? Obviously you can tell I’m pretty open and honest here, but there are still plenty of things in my life I keep private.

But all of this is besides the point. There’s a lot this past week that I didn’t want to mention, that I’ve just wanted to forget. Yet it’s been weighing heavily on my mind and maybe if I’m being truly honest with myself, it needs to be shared. If not for you, then for me.

My feelings as of late range from completely embarrassed to exhausted to feeling very, very alone.

Let’s start with embarrassed. We’ve gone to the hospital TWICE now for “false labor”. I hate calling it that, because there isn’t anything false about it. I have had two bouts (last Sunday night and last Saturday night) of 8+ hours of regular contractions that grow stronger and stronger. I just didn’t progress fast enough and got sent home both times. (They gave me one hour to walk around and if I didn’t “progress” — dilate more — then adios, amigos.) And then hours later at home there would be complete radio silence from my uterus. Thanks, uterus, I thought we were friends.

Both times I cried the whole twenty minute drive home, ashamed and feeling stupid. Blaming myself for inconveniencing everyone for nothing.

I KNOW what true labor feels like. I’ve labored with both of my babies, so shouldn’t I be certain “this is it” with my third? Apparently not.

I’m just shy of 39 weeks and dilated to a 4 but that’s not good enough. I’m terrified the next time I get a bout of contractions I won’t have time to get to the hospital or drop off Jack or Tyler won’t make it. I know, I know, everything will be fine.

If I’m being honest with myself, the most frustrating part of it all to me isn’t the hospital trips at all. It’s that no one really seems to understand my internal struggle of just how long I’ve waited for this baby, and then the disappointment of being sent home without him.

My last newborn died. I went through an entire miserable and emotional 38 weeks of pregnancy and ended up with just a memory. And now I’ve already been through 39 miserable weeks of pregnancy again, and there’s still not a baby in my arms. Try explaining this to a casual friend, to your sister, to your husband — they can sympathize but unless you’ve been through it and carried these little babies the understanding is just not there. There’s sympathy and love and concern, but no true recognition of what it feels like.

I hate coming to terms with that. It’s mean and gloomy and heartbreaking. I know there are so many of you out there rooting for me — for us! — but all the same I don’t feel like I have anyone who can physically throw their arms around me and say, yes Alie, I’ve been there! Because frankly, I’m hysterical and emotionally fragile right now about Owen’s impending birth.

But I wouldn’t want anyone to have gone through the hell of losing a child that I went through either, and for that I’m grateful to be alone.

So maybe it isn’t such a bad place to be after all, in such isolation. So many of you have shown such deep affection and tender hearts for me. You remember, you care.

And even if you don’t understand, I wouldn’t want you to. It means the world to me that you try anyway.