I am weary.
I am weary of this year. It has been long, and there is no end in sight.
I am weary of this seemingly never-ending pursuit to have a child, full of heavy emotion, serious doubts, and crushing uncertainty mixed with pills and medicines and needles and blood tests.
I am weary of god’s persistent silence on the matter. I can’t remember the last time I prayed. My initial anger at god has given way to indifference. If god can’t be bothered, then neither can I — though I ask myself: to whom else can I turn?
I am weary of platitudes and weak attempts at making me feel better. Even if things do happen for a reason, parroting such bullshit offers no comfort. There are no words, and such a response is all that can suffice.
Most days, I want to give in, give up, and grab my wife’s hand and run away.
But I’m still here, my life seemingly immobilized as we steadily and ever-so-slowly march toward some answer, some finality.
Still, I am weary.