two blue lines

I'm pregnant. Up the Duff. Bun in the oven. Knocked up. This is my third child. Well no, my fourth. I had one baby die in a miscarriage already.

This was the first month we'd even tried. I'm a fertile myrtle. This is the first time I have conceived naturally. In fact the first time in my five and half years of marriage that we even have had conventional penetrative sex. I bet you think that is factitious. It's not. Truth can be stranger then fiction. In fact I daresay that MY fiction was created in the corridoors of my mind to make some sort of excuse, some sort of reason for my strangeness. Is it the fact that I'm a lesbian married to man? Is it that I believed the horrors of my own fabrication so completely that I developed such phobias and adverse reactions and hang-ups and triggers as though I actually lived this story? Or were they all just part of the fabrication, that I enacted so fully, even to myself when all alone in the echoing portals of my mind that they became true? Were they true at all. Did I not have sex with my own husband for five and a half years and despite 3 pregnancies just to plant false evidence of my fantastical story? Or did I live a story, some story, some forgotten trauma that haunts my subconscious? The very root of the factitiousness at all. Where is the truth? What is the truth?

I don't always know. But I do know there were two lines on that pregnancy test last night, my husband was grinning, possibly at the sense of manhood that finally comes with knocking up your wife without the assistance of a turkey baster. My eldest thinks it's a baby girl and has images in his head of microscopic hands clutching onto the inner walls of my belly. My youngest thinks its a magpie. Me? I think its a girl, and I think I better start saving for her psychotherapy now.

Isynia