Disclaimer: Smallville does not belong to me.
She is not used to feeling so out of control, but that feeling is becoming more and more common with every passing day. She is even less used to not understanding why she is so overwhelmed with these emotions.
She finds her own behavior strange - as if she is standing to the side watching as someone from whom she is detached muddles her way through the discontent and confusion of it all. She doesn't know whether to be grateful for those moments when the intensity of it all is mitigated by the distance or to be further concerned for her stability that she seems to snap in and out of herself in such a manner. She doesn't know a lot of things these days. Why should this aspect be any different?
She has been what a lot of people would term baby obsessed for longer than she is quite comfortable admitting. It seems almost churlish (at times) to own up to herself just how much she dwells on this absence of something that she has never even had. It makes her feel ungrateful - as if all of the wonderful parts of her life do not really matter to her. That is not the case. They do matter. She just can't quite seem to work her way out of this sense of incompleteness that wants to surround her.
She feels like loss is the wrong word to use in description. She has never had a reason to believe that this was something that was about to arrive. There have been no false alarms; there have been no disappointments of that nature. She has never miscarried and had the semblance of comfort of grieving in the aftermath. There is only this blank space of want that remains lurking in the background of her day to day living. It creeps up on her and plunges her into an abyss of longing so intense that she wants to crumple up and sob in the face of it. It makes her feel unbalanced to know that she could so easily slide into the depths and let it drain all of the joy out of the rest of her being.
She is not unhappy.
She's not, but she knows she is treading water on the edge of something that could so easily leave her with nothing but unhappiness. She does not want to be that person. She does not want to lose sight of everything that she has in the face of this single missing piece.
She hears echoes of old (and should be buried) conversations that became discussions that paved the way for arguments that have decided that now is the appropriate time to come back to haunt her. Her father had been deeply disappointed in her decision to become Mrs. Jonathan Kent of Smallville, Kansas. He had insisted that it was not out of some misguided sense of snobbery. He had told her that it was because he believed that she was making a choice to give up things that she did not yet understand. (She had speculated that that was glorified parent speak for being too young to know what she was doing.) She could still remember the inflection in his voice when he told her that his greatest fear for her was that she would find herself one day staring at a balance sheet of her life and regretting that the tallies of what she had thought she wanted did not, in fact, outweigh the things she had given up to get them. She had dismissed him at the time. She had waxed nearly poetic about all of life's decisions involving tradeoffs, but she was starting to have that same worry for herself. She was not worried in the same way that her father had claimed to be worried, but she was afraid that she was putting so much emphasis on this one thing that she would ruin everything else in her desperation.
She told herself that she would not let it go that far. She told herself that she could have one more month of hoping and then she would stop being disappointed - until one more became one more and one more. She told herself that she would just see one more doctor and then she would accept the reality of what she was being told - until one more became one more and one more. She told herself that she would not cry when another application came back denied - until not this time became not this time and not this time.
She told herself a lot of things, but she did not seem to be particularly good at listening and following through on what it was that she was telling herself. She was coming unmoored from her life; she knew that she was, but she could not quite seem to shake herself out of it. She began to find herself wondering what it would take. Would she let the words of accusation that wanted to come bubbling up out of her spill out one day about how he could not possibly truly understand? After all, the problem did not reside within him. He could walk away and go have all the babies in the world with another woman (one who was not deficient like she called herself in the moments when the want and the sorrow turned to anger and self-loathing). If she ever lost her grip on the filter, how much vitriol would spew out of her before she managed to rein it back in again?
She is not miserable. She likes her life. She loves her husband. She has dozens upon dozens of beautiful moments in her memory to remind her that she is not alone in this. Why is it then that she can't she just let go of the weight that seems determined to pull her under? She does not know, and she is frightened that she is running out of time to figure it out.