Tantrums.

I'd like to say that I finished having them around the same time I grew out of toddler-sized clothing, but that wouldn't be true. If the five stages of grief can be applied to coping after miscarriage, well, then I'm in the angry stage. The anger used to be steady and constant, always present but kept just below the surface, but lately it's become more of a rage that is buried deep but that bubbles up ferociously from time to time. Like on Tuesday.

It was one of those days where one straw adds to another until the camel's back finally gives way. I came home late, short-tempered and snappy, and took it out on Gilles, who gave me the response I merited (which, with the sweetheart I'm astonishingly lucky to have, was not an equal amount of short-tempered snappiness in return but rather a gentle reminder to be kind to somebody who has done nothing to deserve less). I flounced away and went into the bathroom and saw this month's CBEFM sticks lined up on the floor, all carefully ordered and marked with date and time, all showing the exact same single line day after day.

How pathetic, this row of sticks. How stupid to write the date on them when they all look exactly the same and all show exactly nothing. I shouldn't even be using them. I shouldn't be having cycles. I should be halfway through what we thought we were starting in December.

At those thoughts, I lost it. I screamed some choice words at the sticks, swooped down and picked them up, all together, snapped them in two, and threw them across the bathroom. I stopped myself before doing the same to the monitor, knowing even in my fury that I would really regret it afterwards. But how I would have loved to have seen it as smashed open as I sometimes feel that I am.

Like a storm that rains itself to an eventual end, my rage was extinguished by the furious tears still leaking from my eyes even as I dropped into sleep. Yesterday's stick was different, and today's is too; two stripes instead of one, accompanied by the peak symbol so nice to see on the little screen after a week of don't bother.

This could be the time. The idea – the hope (I too do have some) – brought me so much peace that I even restrained my usual glower and instead found a smile for a woman who crossed my path today while cradling a newly arrived little one, all bundled up and cozy and calm in a crisp white blanket.

It's that kind of out-of-character behavior, rather than the tantrums, that I really should do something about – and soon, before I commit a deed even more bizarre, like nodding cheerily at a pregnant lady. Now that would be just crazy!