Today I went to the doctor. I’ve been sick since Sunday; fever, achy, the whole nine yards. I’ve also had lower back pain since Monday morning. I was diagnosed with a massive (or I believe the word she used was impressive) sinus infection, the flu (not the bacon type) and I’ve pinched my sciatic nerve. Oh, and I’m not pregnant.
Yeah.
For two and a half weeks, I thought I might be. But I’m not.
I’m angry. I am so angry right now. Angry at the world. Angry at my body for making me sick and late at the same time, so I confused the two. Angry that it just isn’t easier. Angry that my fucktard of a cousin can keep having kids (each with a different dad, each one dumber and less employable than the last) that she doesn’t want, mostly neglects and lets the government pay for, but that it isn’t easy for me. I am angry at myself for how much I believed in something, just because I want it to be true. Angry.
Mostly though, I’m sad. Very, very sad. Because I wanted to be pregnant, very much so. I wanted it so bad and it hurts. I felt my heart shatter into pieces when my doctor told me. I wanted a baby. I want a baby. I want to be pregnant right now. I would have done anything to change her answer. I cried when I called my husband. I cried when I called my mother. I cried as I called my best friend. I am crying as I write this.
It’s more than just this time though. It’s not that easy. I should be complaining to you all right now about the end of my pregnancy. I should be planning into my holidays the very likelihood of going into labor on Christmas. I should be buying a little stocking and baby’s first Christmas ornament, just in case the baby came a bit early. If I’d not miscarried in April, I’d be so close right now. But it wasn’t meant to be.
It doesn’t matter how many kids you have or don’t have. When you want a baby, when you want to add to your family and you can’t seem to be able too, it’s a horribly empty feeling. When you think you are pregnant for a few weeks and you are so thrilled, only to find out you are not, it is so sad. In fact, it is heartbreaking.
I am heartbroken tonight. Sick and broken.
It’s an honest question. A nice one even. One that shows that someone cares and is actually curious how I am. A question you ask your friends when they seem to be having a hard time. I have been asked this, many times in the last three weeks.
I am not always sure how to answer.
How honest an answer do they want, is my first thought. My second is, LIE. Say, you are fine. Say you are doing better. Say today is a great day. They don’t want to hear this crap again.
I’m not sure what is right. What to say, what to leave out. What to gloss over.
Truth? Does anyone even want the truth? I honestly don’t know. I don’t know that you guys do. Sometimes I think I should shut this site down. That I’m just not entertaining enough, I don’t post enough, I’ve been too depressed for too long. I have nothing to say that is positive. Nothing to say except the truth and I don’t know that I should say it.
But this is a blog and it’s my blog, so I’ll give it a shot.
Truths:
-I have panic attacks. Daily. I have had them for a little over three weeks now. They come on for no reason and it literally hurts to breath. I can not explain it any better than that. It is completely debilitating for the 5 – 20 minutes it lasts. I am however, down to one to three a day. Which doesn’t seem great to me, but is better than the eight I was having a day three weeks ago. Or the six a day last week.
-I am going to therapy twice a week. Thursday of last week was the first day I didn’t cry the entire time. This is supposed to be my last week of twice a week. But I’m going to tell her I think I need a few more weeks, before we go to just once a week.
-I am having to take sleeping pills to sleep. To keep nightmares at bay. To help me sleep, so I can maybe function the following day. When I take them, I do sleep. Sometimes I get dumb like Sunday night and think I can skip one. Then I regret it all day. (Not only just because I’m exhausted and people get all yelly.) I don’t function that well right now, so there’s not much hope for functioning without sleep.
-I have managed to eat two to three meals a day for the last four days. This is an improvement. Previously, I hadn’t managed one actual meal a day in three weeks. Actually it’s really been close to six weeks, since prior to this, I’d been sick and hadn’t gotten my appetite back.
-When I look at the big picture, I get overwhelmed. I only see failure. I see nothing good. No progress. I focus on the negative. I am having to be reminded daily, that I am in fact doing better. Making progress. Taking the steps necessary to deal with what I need to deal with. Some moments I believe it. Until I don’t. Then I go back to square one.
-A week ago, my husband made an executive decision. He decided that our son needed to spend his days with my best friend. He is paying her to watch him. Every day, while the girls are in school. Since Kate already has a day care kid and she’s my friend, she is perfectly happy with him spending the day with her. I know this is the right choice. I know this is temporary. Mostly until I stop having panic attacks all the time. But it stings. I feel like a failure as a parent. I hate that Logan felt like he had to make the choice for me. Without me. Harrison however is have the time of his life, playing with his second cousin who is three months older than him. He doesn’t care when I drop him off each morning.
-I watched a movie on Friday night called My Life in Ruins. I laughed for 90 straight minutes. I’d forgotten laughing. Laughing until you cry, because it’s just so dam funny. I’d forgotten what that felt like. I don’t think I’d laughed so much since I was in Vegas, the second weekend of September. I will be buying that movie.
-I have gotten out of bed every single day for three weeks. Even though there are many days in which, I have not wanted too.
-After nearly three weeks of grilled cheese, fast food and french toast for dinner, I have cooked for three days. I will cook tonight as well.
-I feel like I need to recover, to sit for a bit, to veg for an hour, after I leave the house. No matter what I am leaving the house for. It just seems like a lot of work. Surviving right now, seems like a lot of work. It is a lot of work. It’s hard and not especially pretty. But I’m doing it.
So, how am I doing? Meh. Okay. Better in some moments and not others. Good enough?
There are moments where breathing in and out seems like a lot of work. I hyperventilate sometimes until I remember that I do know how to breath deeply. In an out, in and out. Two, three, four times before I feel like I will make it.
I have to be constantly reminded that I am doing okay. That I’ve come far in two weeks. That I’ve continued to move forward. That baby steps are better than no steps at all. I sometimes have to be reminded to breath.
This weekend was good. Fun even. Family time, spent in the mountains. Time spent watching silly movies and playing Wii championship games of bowling.
I can’t seem to hang onto it. I can’t seem to stay positive.
This is an improvement, I know. After two solid weeks of barely making it each day. Of crying more than one should cry, of falling more than I thought I could fall. I know two days of peace and fun, was good. An improvement. For two days straight I didn’t think about the things in my face. Two days of eating entire meals, of not throwing away 98% of it; is good. Three solid nights of sleep is good. Thank you Ambien.
But I can’t hold onto it.
Am I doing better than I was last week? Yes. Last week was….the only words I can come up with are soul crushing. Not sure that is right. But that’s how it felt then.
I know I am doing better. I feel a little better than I did. I will continue going to therapy twice a week, until I don’t have to be reminded to breath. To eat. To sleep.
However, it doesn’t feel like enough. I should feel better. I know that is silly, but it’s how I feel. I feel like an over dramatic spaz. I know I’m not. I know what I’m going through, even the feeling like I should get over it, is completely normal.
Problem is, my brain knows it; my heart just isn’t so sure.
I feel broken. I feel unfixable. I feel battered. This feels too big. Too hard. Too much for me to deal with.
I’m scared.
I count little white pills. That’s how I know when I’m not doing so great; when I count pills. Six left. Now five left. Five little tiny pills left. I make a mental note to call in my refill on Friday.
I didn’t think it would be like this two years later. PPD is what they said, in July two years ago. Post Partum Depression. Even though I had no baby to show for it. Just a broken heart and a half filled drawer of silly onesies. I thought as time went by, it would go away. PPD does. Or so I’ve been told.
Here I sit though, two years and two months later, counting little pills. I count them, when I’m having a shitty time. I count them so I know when to get more. I count them, because the new ones will be a bit stronger. I count them, because they are my security blanket.
I see women all pregnant right now and I have to not pay attention. I walked into kids stores this past weekend with Liz and tried not to cringe as I looked over all the baby stuff. Right now, I should know what my baby was going to be. I should be buying little onesies and socks. I should be telling Harrison about his baby brother or sister and watching him laugh at me, like a loony, because what does a nearly one year old child understand about new babies anyway? I should be preparing for my Christmas baby, arguring with my husband over names. But I’m not.
It’s not as bad this time. A five week misscarriage is not as bad as a fourteen week one. But what’s bad? How do you characterize bad? In some ways, I’ve done better. In others I feel worse. Two babies lost forever is harder than one baby lost forever. I dream about them, but even in my dreams, I never get to touch them.
It’s not all sad, my life. I have weeks that are great. I adore my children. They make me smile, even on my worst days. I get out of bed every day. I take care of my family. My heart has healed in a lot of ways. My mind and emotions have healed in a lot of ways. But some weeks are rough. This one happens to be one. A week where getting out of bed is a chore. A week where making dinner seems as challenging as running a marathon. A week where I just want to hide. Part of it right now, is vacation-itis. I have that big time right now. The week after a great vacation is always sad and depressing. Reality sits in.I know this, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
I watch my husband get up and leave each morning. He comes home late and then we go to bed. I haven’t spent any real time with him in over two weeks. I roll over and look at him each morning and I miss him before he even gets up to shower. It won’t always be like this, but it is right now. Yesterday I cried as he showered. I cried on the way home from taking the girls to school on Monday and Tuesday. I cried on Sunday, after Liz borded her plane.
Today is a better day, I know this, because I haven’t cried. Tomorrow maybe I won’t even count little white pills.
I’m sure I shouldn’t post this. I needed to write though. I need you all to know why I’m not really present this week, even though I’m technically here. I’d not open comments, but I honestly don’t know how to turn them off. Plus, I just told Stacey yesterday, that she shouldn’t ever close comments again, so I’d be a meany to do it myself. Just know, I really am okay. I really will be okay in a few days. I’m just having a week.
Yesterday, the dreaded note came home from school. Bailey handed it to me, after handing me her lunch box filled with half eaten food.
As an aside, do your kids bring home the half eaten food in their lunch box? Really, I don’t need a quarter of a sandwich back. I know for certain, that they have trash cans and recycling cans in the cafeteria.
The note was almost completely empty, except for the words: Please call me after 6pm this evening to discuss Bailey.
Um Noodle, did you get in trouble today? No. Are you sure? Yes mama. (Insert heavy sigh.)
Were you talking during quiet reading time? No.
How many stars did you have at the end of the day? Three. (Three is what they start with each morning.)
Hmmm, okay. I did what I always do, I freaked out. I called my husband and told him that either our kid was brilliant, or they were about to tell us how behind she is. I spent 20 minutes (at least) spazzing out in a chat with Liz. Both told me, oh she’s fine. You are worrying for nothing.
It’s hard though. I have a hard time not freaking out, first off, because it is my nature. Second, because a note with no info is not helpful. Mostly though, it’s because I’ve been worrying about Bailey lately. It’s hard not to compare the girls. There is no comparison though, in terms of academics. Morgan is so far advanced that it frightens me most days. When your first child has a huge IQ, you don’t know what is normal. What is average? What is considered behind? My girls are polar opposites, in every way imaginable. I don’t know what a normal five year old should be like academically. I don’t worry about Bailey in any other way. Or Morgan either. Academically however, I worry about Bailey. Have been for awhile. Comparing her to Morgan isn’t helpful. It’s impossible in fact.
Six rolled around and I called the teacher. Tried to breath and not freak out from the second she answered.
Turns out I had nothing to worry about. As I should have known, had I thought clearly for one solid minute. Which we know isn’t my strong suit.
At her table in class, Bailey sits with a girl who is deaf. The teacher is fluent in sign language and this girl was put next to Bailey, because Bailey is so easy going. (Gotta love a small school. Our teachers know the kids before they have them in class.) She made this girl, Bailey’s buddy. Each kindergartner has a buddy. The girl speaks and can hear some, as well as she reads lips and signs. None of this is the issue.
The teacher called to ask me if she could teach Bailey (as well as another girl) some sign language, during a free “activity table” time. Bailey and the other girl keep asking the teacher, what is the sign for this and what about that. They want to learn sign language and the teacher would love to teach them.
I was worried about nothing. Just another example of how my middle child is. A prime example of how amazing she is. I know this about her, but sometimes it still takes me by surprise.
Needless to say, Bailey and her friend are going to start signing lessons to be able to fully comminucate with their new best buddy.
I’ve had a few good weeks. Weeks without depression, weeks without tears. Weeks where getting out of bed was easy. Weeks where I didn’t have to try to feel okay, it came naturally. (Or as naturally as it will ever come, when I’m on medication.)
I’ve felt it creeping back, that fuckhead depression. Didn’t miss it. It could have stayed gone for ever, as far as I was concerned. I hoped it would. But no, it doesn’t seem to listen very well. It’s very inconsiderate like that.
I could blame it on the letdown of being back at home after a fun filled week. I could blame it on my baby girl going to kindergarten soon. I could probably blame it on the two year anniversary of losing a piece my heart and a bit of my mind.
But it’s not really any of that. Mostly it’s just today.
Today is one of those days. A day where getting out of bed took too much effort. A day where I don’t care if I speak to anyone at all. A day where I am glad that my kids are with a cousin, because I don’t have it in me to deal with them. If they were here, I’d deal. No question about it. But they’re not today, so I’m allowed to just deal with myself. I don’t have to pretend.
I keep hoping one day that this will all go away. That I can go back to being the girl who I used to be. The girl with no real problems, who’d experienced heartache, but not at the level in which I have now.
I don’t think she exists anymore though.
I’ve opened twitter about ten times, but I haven’t said a thing. I have read what others have written, but not found anything to respond too. I try, because I think if I can start a conversation about nothing, maybe I will start to feel better. But I don’t.
I want to tell you how funny my girls are. How big Harrison is getting. About my SIL’s wedding next week. I’d rather be telling you how much I miss my conference peeps. How lonely it feels to go and get coffee alone every morning. But I just can’t today.
Today sucks. Today I just want to hide. Today, I may just hide. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
I’m at the park with the kids yesterday afternoon and while the girls are taking turns pushing the baby in the swing, I decide to check in on Twitter. Yes, I am that person. The woman with her Crackberry permanently attached to her hand. Anyway, I’m reading tweets and something someone had said cracked me up and I laughed out loud.
Twitter or Facebook, this woman near me asks. I turn and notice this woman, who I hadn’t even realized had sat down. Twitter I said, without thinking. But I use Facebook too.
Oh what’s your Twitter name? I can follow you.
Uh, it’s protected I said. We’re from California and I use it to keep in touch with friends out there. Oh, okay was her answer. Then Harrison called out to me and I got up and walked away.
I lied. To a random stranger. She looked nice. She had kids. She was at the park in my neighborhood. I still lied to her.
Why?
Well that is a hard one. I am going to be dead honest here. I don’t ever intend on telling my family or friends about this blog. (Yes my husband knows, but he wishes he didn’t. He probably wishes what I said to her were true, that you all were old friends from California.) I don’t use Facebook for realz. I mean, yes I have one. But not one that my family could find. Twitter? well the same thing there, although a few people know that I use it, but none of them seem interested in it at all. People like my mother for example could care less what Twitter is, although I have explained it to her.
I can’t make friends with people in my area through blogging or Twitter and think I can keep it quiet. Or separate. My children have the biggest mouths in the world. I don’t fault her at all, but Morgan is the one who mentioned my previous blog to my aunt, which caused HUGE family drama, because I was too open, too honest and she still won’t speak to me.
My blog life, my online life, is separate from my life in many, many ways. I tried it the other way and it blew up in my face. People, my own step-mother won’t speak to me because of it. Unless I am standing in front of her, I don’t exist. My own father won’t talk to me more than once a month because of it. (Well that and they are both asses.) Iit’s been a few years. I don’t have much family on that side and almost none of them really speak to me anymore because of the secrets they believe I shared with the world. They aren’t wrong, I did. I said things I shouldn’t have, because I believed I was safe. But hi, when you use your children’s real names and they are not very common names, you are easy to find.
This is me. This space is my place to be me. I don’t lie here. I’ve told you all straight out that my family and blog life are separate. This is where I can be brutally honest. More honest and open than I am in real life, I’ll tell you that right now. This is where I say, I am struggling right now to maintain. I am struggling with my depression right now. I am unhappy right now. I am sad. My heart hurts.
I can say this all here and much more, because this is my space. My space to be me, without repercussions from my friends and family. Logan does not read this blog. He has asked that I not discuss his personal life too much, but I could and he wouldn’t even know it. He has left this as my deal.
But now I’m going to a conference. A conference with what like 1000 other bloggers? I am starting to wonder why I am doing this. Why I want to meet you all as much as I do, when I will come home and pretend I was elsewhere. Until the Keynote thing, I thought it would be okay. I can remain anonymous if I am 1 of a 1000. It’s harder to remain anonymous when you are on a keynote with 15 other bloggers. I don’t have the answers. I am going to go to the conference, read my post and have a blast. But I don’t know what happens when I get back and it scares me.
Is that okay? Does it bother you guys? Are you okay with me, the me you know here, if you know I will most likely never introduce you to my husband, children or friends? Is it okay that this is my thing? My one place in my life, where it’s just about me? Will you still be my friends despite the fact that I’d lie to a random stranger about being on Twitter, because it keeps the peace in my life?
The lines are blurry. I’ve let them get blurry, because I consider you guys my friends. True, real, friends. No question about that. But the blurriness scares me.
Father’s Day is not the day to discuss my father. Yesterday was a day to celebrate dad’s. As you can all see below, I choose to celebrate an amazing dad, Mike Spohr in my post below. I could have talked about my husband, because he, like Mike, is an amazing dad. However he really doesn’t like being talked about in this space and that is a request, I can honor. Just so you all know though, my husband is an amazing father. In my wildest dreams, I could never have asked for a better father for my children. He’s a keeper. But yesterday was for Mike. Because he deserved it. He deserves much more than that, but it was the least I could do to celebrate him in my space.
Also? I can’t discuss my dad on Father’s Day.
Not that I don’t have one, because I do. But he’s never really been much of a dad to me. Not since I was six years old and he met my step-mom. From that day forward, I was an inconvenience, not his only daughter. I am his only daughter, but because his wife has a daughter as well, he took her on as his and sort of left me behind.
It’s complicated.
It hurts to write this stuff. Also, I have to be careful how much I say, in case they ever do find this blog. Don’t know why I care as much as I do, but I just do. Let’s just say, I am writing a post about them, for a guest post somewhere else, but it’s taken me three weeks and I’m not even close to finishing it.
Yesterday I called my dad and he didn’t pick up the phone. I called the house and I called his cell phone, but he didn’t pick up. He won’t talk to me if she is around. I talk to him once a month, occasionally twice, but he always calls me from work. Like I said, I don’t exist to her. When we talk it is always forced. Maybe the right word is fake? The kids, the weather, the who is doing what in the extended family. Nothing personal, nothing real, no emotion. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember.
Maybe once every three or four years we have a chance to have a real conversation in person. I hold onto those conversations like Bailey does her blankie at night, because they mean so much to me. I always wonder, what if this was the last one. I have to remember every word, ever joke, every smile, in case this was the last time I talk to him like this. We had a two hour conversation when I was out there visiting in April. We sat on his back porch and talked. Like really talked. The girls were shopping with my step-mom, the baby was sleeping, it was a perfect moment. Then it was over and we went back to fake.
But yesterday I didn’t exist again. Yesterday, I didn’t even get a phone call back. You can say, oh he was busy; this is what Logan said last night. But no, I know it’s not true. (Logan know’s it’s not true too.) If I called my brother, he’d tell me that he was there all day at dad’s house. Most likely at a BBQ of some form, because this is what they always do. He’d tell me that dad probably looked at the phone, saw it was me and said, out loud, oh I’ll call her later. I know this to be true, because it has happened way too often. I don’t call my brother and ask, because he doesn’t like to have to tell me and I don’t like to have to hear it.
I know that one day this week, I will get a phone call from him. He will call me at work, when he has exactly three minutes to talk to me. He will mention that everyone was out the house on Sunday and he missed me. He may even mention my messages to him.
But he doesn’t miss me enough to pick up the phone when I call. I don’t rate high enough on the list, to even get to say to him on Father’s Day, Happy Father’s Day, dad. It sucks. It hurts. But I can’t do a thing about it. I just get to live with it. At nearly 30 years old, I should be used to it and most days I am, but on day’s like yesterday, it creeps up on me what I’m missing. I watch Logan be adored by our girls, I watch him adore them and I envy them. I envy my own children. how freaking sick is that?
They have this amazing relationship and it makes me thrilled. It also makes me sad.
I tried for years to make my realtionship with my dad better. Tried and tried and tried. But I failed.
I have friends who have no father. Friends, some of you included who lost your dads way before you should have. My heart breaks for all of you. I can’t even imagine. I know my issues with my dad don’t compare. Mine is still around. He lives in California. He’s an awesome man. He’s entertaining, a kind hearted person, he is a good friend, a good boss and a good husband. He’s even a good dad to my brothers and my step-siblings. He just isn’t to me.
You write a post about silly nonsense, the first real post in a month and get told that you are a sheep and should kill yourself. By a person with no name, but none the less, some person who felt that was the right thing to say.
As bloggers, we are supposed to not care about this. We should get used to it. You have enough hits to your site, you are bound to get some trolls. We are supposed to harden our heart and not let the stupid comments bother us. As a seasoned writer in a public forum, I am supposed to just let this roll off my back. It doesn’t matter, it’s just some asshat troll. Delete and ignore. We’ve even come up with the blogging terminology to describe these people; the people who attack in comments, the people with no names.
But it does hurt and it does sting. Even after all these years of doing this, it bothers me. Intellectually it doesn’t bother me. But the heart and the brain don’t’ always feel the same way. You just don’t say that to someone. That is something that I can’t just brush off. The, you should kill yourself comment. The rest of it can be ignored, but that one stings. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I had a friend who did kill himself. In some ways it bothers me more when someone attacks a friend of mine, than when they attack me. I am always willing to defend a friend and luckily I didn’t have to say anything yesterday, as all of you were kind enough to defend me.
After the multiple comments and then the attacks on all of my friends, it almost seemed funny in some way. This person who so wanted to be known as the troll of the day. It seemed less personal after that, which was nice. But that one comment sits under my skin and eats at me. Because I wonder why someone would say such hateful things to a stranger. I wonder what I said to provoke him. Did my talking about Disneyland or my kids last day of school, provoke such a hateful response? Am I just an easy target?
It’s not me. I’ve been told that two dozen times, by people I adore. I know they are right, yet I still feel responsible.
I think in some way, they must be jealous. Jealous of our families, jealous of our friendships, jealous that they have no name. That must be really sad for them, to have no name. I doubt they’d walk up to a stranger on the street and spew such hatred, as they are apt to do online. I wonder what makes someone feel that this is okay? That the words they type are any different than the words they say aloud. Words have power, whether you type or say them. Maybe they don’t care, maybe I am such a horrible person and I deserve it. However, I doubt it, because I’ve never in real life, had someone attack me like this. You want to know why? Because I am a nice human being. I am kind to others, even people who don’t deserve it. I say please and thank you. I donate money and time to help the less fortunate. I don’t tailgate, nor flip off strangers who cut me off in traffic. I’ve never taken a thing in this world that did not belong to me. I am a hard worker and a responsible human being. I take good care of my children. I am a good person.
But they don’t see that. They don’t seem to care to see that. They don’t care that telling a depressed person to kill themselves is just plain wrong. He doesn’t care, because it doesn’t affect his life.
It bothers me, this lack of caring. The ability to spew filth and not care what you’ve put into the world. It makes me wonder about the world. And I don’t like that feeling.
This person, who taunted the blog world yesterday, doesn’t care about people. Doesn’t care about people’s feelings or emotions. Most likely it was a ploy for attention. There have been others before and there will be more after. Eventually they move on, because truly, why would you continue to read blogs written by parents, if you hate parents and children? (And hi, don’t you have parents, weren’t you once a child?)
It hurts me as much as it does, not really because of the 23 words this person said, but because I am still fragile. I am the first person to admit, I’ve had a hard ass month, which has come after a hard ass eight months, following a rough couple of years. I have my good moments and my not so good moments. Yesterday was the first time in a month when I hadn’t been depressed and this is what I get. Yesterday, by the way, was the four week mark. I lost the baby four weeks ago, last night.
I have been depressed and trying to be okay (and doing a dam good job of it) for a month. I’m fragile and I can’t handle this without talking about. I can’t ignore it like I should probably do. I can’t just let it go.
Which is why I’m writing this. Not because I want to give this person more attention. I have deleted and will continue to delete all of his comments. I am not going to link to his site, nor will I ever click on it again.
I am writing this, because I have to. I have to say all of this. I have to write that this isn’t okay. That I am not just some random stranger behind a computer screen. I am a person with feelings. I am a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend and dog owner. I am a good person.
I am taking a stand. I am saying to the world, to all the trolls out there, that this has gone on long enough. Go find a life and stay the hell out of mine. Leave my friends alone. No one cares what you have to say. Shoo.
I knew right away. Some women don’t know for weeks, a few for months, but I knew the very next day. Weeks before a test would ever show me a plus sign. The tell tale nausea, the kind that lasts all day. Morning sickness my ass. The sore boobs, the dizziness, the inability to eat anything besides bread, pineapple and ginger ale. I was pregnant.
There are next to no pictures of our vacation in Hawaii; no funny stories or great date adventures. There is none of that because I (well we) spent our entire vacation in the hotel room. And not in the fun way. (Trust me, there has been no fun in that way lately.) I have been sick for a month. Just waiting for the day that I could take a test, post a picture of it and tell the world. Because I was beyond thrilled. I told more people than I should have, because the excitement was overwhelming. I also thought it good to mention to a few people why I was never around, why I never posted anymore, why I rarely made any mention of being around. So people didn’t forget about me I guess. That day, was Tuesday of last week. I peed on the little stick and it confirmed what I knew, what I had known for a month; I was pregnant. Excited, I told everyone I came across.
Late Wednesday night, I lost it. The baby, my baby. Gone as quickly as I told people. Just gone. One day after confirmation that it was true, it was all over.
I went on vacation anyway, this past weekend, because I needed a distraction. I slept a total of an hour and a half Wednesday night, but I went to California anyway. In the moment, it seemed like the best option. Maybe it was. But now I’m home. And I hurt. There are no more distractions now. There are no more family members to act fine around. No more places to go. Nothing, except me and my head for company.
I am writing this, because I can’t speak. Not past the: please don’t hit your sister or the, yes, sure have another piece of candy, I don’t care; type of speaking. I am here, going through the motions. Changing diapers, doing dishes, playing along on Twitter; but I don’t feel it. It’s not real, it’s fake. I am pretending. Pretending I am not crushed. Pretending I want to do anything besides get in bed and pull my comforter over my head for a week. I feel like a shadow of myself. Like I am watching myself do these things, but not really doing them. I am not sure I can explain it, not sure I need too. I will be forced to speak tomorrow, to my shrink. But I am not ready. I just want time to grieve. However to appease my husband I will at least go to the appointment.
Every time I open my mouth, I feel like I offend people. And it’s true, because I have offended a few people. I am spewing on others, my lovely friend told me today. She is right and there are very few people I’d let say that to me when I feel like this. But I am, spewing and making asshat statements. So, now….I am not talking.
I hurt. I am sad. I want my baby back. I can write this, but I can’t speak it.
I am not crazy, despite my jokes about it. I am just a woman who lost a baby. A sad, depressed woman who lost a baby. A baby that made me sick like a dog for a month. I would be sick for the next eight months, if I could have my baby back at the end.
Right now, my heart hurts. It hurts so bad that I feel it cracking. It hurts to breath, it hurts to smile. I have to make myself eat. If you don’t believe me, ask Maura how little cake I ate when I met her on Saturday night. I know in a few days, I will feel better. I know in a few weeks, I will feel even better than that. I know one day soon, I will laugh at a joke, tell a joke even; it will feel good and natural. I will one day find myself smiling, drinking wine, or enjoying a moment. I have felt this way before, I know how it goes. Truly it’s not as bad as last time around. But today I pretend.
I wrote this so you all know why I haven’t been around, why I may not be around or be very pleasant for a bit. I wrote this for me, because I had to get some of it out. I had to say what I can’t say, if that makes any sense. I had to write that I am crushed, because I am. Because it hurts to breath and it hurts even more to think. Because one day I won’t feel like this, but I need to own it right now. To honor it; my grief and loss. To share my love for a baby I will never meet. My baby.
Grab My Button!
I’m a joiner
