I wasn't going to go to therapy this morning. I go through this every weekend. On Friday I decide, I'm not going on Monday. Then I dither back and forth- I should go, it's good for me to go, it's an outlet and a two hour block in the week where I can get childcare and a safe place to be me. But then I don't want to go. I don't want to lay myself open in front of strangers to judge me, strangers who can see my eyes when they go far away and who can have me forcibly committed if I go a little too fey. I go back and forth, back and forth, and at last in the ten minutes before I have to get out of the house on Monday morning I say to hell with it. I go. And I sit there wondering how I ever thought I wouldn't go.

It's been another day of uncertainty. Of the heartburn and the Big Queasy. Of the knowing that my HPTs are all coming up that I'm not pregnant, and knowing that there's something happening internally that I can feel, dammit, and that this isn't something I can just order myself to snap out of. I tried that. It didn't work. One more week and I can lay all these feelings in front of a doctor who will tell me one way or another, a doctor who can order the tests to tell me what is what and if I should be knitting a little white layette for my next bundle of joy.

The Toddler didn't want to nap today. She stayed awake for 12 hours, straight, and finally gave it up around quarter to 6 this evening. She's going to be exhausted tomorrow. She's hopefully going to sleep through the night tonight, although I know that I won't. I'll be awake again, several times, with the same medley of symptoms that have me placing one hand on my lower belly where it's now extremely tender and deep-down sore, and wondering,

Is there anyone in there?