What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series click here. Today’s guest post is by Diana Tierney.

What I want you to know about living with infertility is that it is that its waking up in the morning feeling full of hope and going to sleep wishing you could bury yourself under the covers and never have to come out.

Infertility is more than just praying that every time you go to the toilet there isn’t blood. It’s pleading, bargaining, begging to whatever God you pray to that this time. Just this once you are over reacting. That it is nothing. But in the end you aren’t over reacting and you find yourself silently cursing the powers that be.

Infertility is crying. Crying behind closed doors. Crying alone in a car. Crying in your office. Crying over a glass of wine being guzzled through a crazy straw. Crying in the arms of your partner while they try to be strong for you.

Infertility is being poked and prodded so many times that you know the nurses by first name. Sperm samples are given with the frequency of a Costco sample and with about as much privacy.

Infertility is trying to hold your shit together when you are sitting down with a new doctor. And another doctor. And another doctor. And then yet another doctor after that.

Infertility is smiling and nodding politely as someone brags about their new grand baby just days after the big “M” becomes a part of you and your partner’s collective history.

Infertility is resisting the urge to punch the next person who tells you “It will happen when it is supposed to.” Or “God will give you a baby when the time is right.” Because it is socially acceptable to say this to someone trying to get pregnant but not to a diabetic.

Infertility is trying new diets. New vitamins. New exercises. It is believing every single old wives tale that you have ever heard about conceiving. Infertility is laying upside down with your feet up for fifteen minutes after sex because that’s what grandma did.

Infertility is avoiding baby showers and birthday parties with as much anxiety as being caught in front of a school assembly with no pants on. Until unexpectedly you find yourself at one and all you want to do is runaway because the uncontrollable panic rising like bile at the back of your throat is threatening to crack your perfectly crafted façade.

Infertility is challenging friendships. It’s hoping that your obsession with your cycle doesn’t fall under the TMI category. That knowing you talk about your infertility like a love struck high school girl most likely gets on your best friend’s nerves but they tolerate it because they love you.

Infertility is hoping the baby shower gift you sent in your stead is good enough to explain that you really do care. That you really are happy for them but you just can’t be in the same room with them for the next nine months.

Infertility is testing your limits. Testing your relationships. Testing your psychological stability. Testing your hope.

Infertility is waking up the next day with a new plan. A new outlook. A new hope. Even if that hope is just for some wine out of a crazy straw.