Expressions

I wish I wasn't so emotionally blergh. I don't even know how to describe it. Stunted? Dead? Numb?

I wish just for once I could say how I really feel and mean it. Feel it, show it.

Even those closest to me have no idea. I'm good at this block. It's like I have a pre-recorded response to all these questions. Yet inside I'm crushed, broken, hurting and crying. No one can see that. Perhaps they do and just pretend as much as I do.

Why is it so hard for me to express the pain I'm really living. I don't want to keep playing that recorded response over and over. I don't want to say I'm fine when I'm not.

Blergh, that sums it up.

How to overcome this feeling? Perhaps it's more appropriate to say I'm okay than to fall in a heap on the floor and cry. Who knows what's appropriate.

We tend to rationalise life and it's events. An old woman dies, well she lived a long life or she's not suffering anymore. How do you do that with the death of your child? You can't. There is nothing I can say to make those words "My daughter died" any less painful.

They say time heals. I think time just keeps moving. It doesn't heal, it just continues on around you. Eventually you take another step and once again move along with time. We don't heal, we keep living. Or should I say, we keep breathing...

I'm not living. One day my soul will blossom and I'll learn to live again.

More random journal entries

Hmm I've just realised nothing I write is dated.

I do know I wrote this on Anzac Day though.

A bit of background first. Both my grandmother and grandfather are deceased. I was very close to them during my childhood years. I then moved interstate and saw very little of my nan, although I sent photos and cards and letters often. She had always hoped I'd one day have a daughter. My grandmother's name is Jane. 

My daughter was born on my Grandmother's Birthday! The 2nd of October. She would have been so chuffed at that. Exactly four weeks after my daughter's birth, on the 2nd of November my grandmother died and joined my daughter. I just cannot help but wonder about that connection.

I always wonder if my grandmother knew about Yuna? Did she know she was born. Did she know she looked just like me? Did Yuna take comfort in my grandmother like I did? Some thing's we'll never know. Perhaps they are together now.

Flashbacks seem to be intensifying. Maybe it's some kind of emotional preservation. The more time passes the more doorways and memories are unlocked. I don't like seeing all of it replaying behind my eyelids. Sometimes I'd like to take a break from this. Just for a moment. Some peace.

One that's been coming to me a lot lately is that very moment just before Yuna was born.  I felt like time ceased to exist. I felt like I couldn't go on. It was surreal, powerful and intense.

I seemed to come out of it and remember clearly looking down at my belly and talking to her. Just like I'd done for months before. 

There was a deep connection, an understanding, a knowing. We pushed on and somewhere deep within I gained an overwhelming power. The power to get through the next few minutes, hours, days, weeks.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was the moment. It ended there? 

That was the moment we were one. The last time I was truly connected to her. The last time I'd have her with me.

She was gone before she was here. 

Her spirit was always here and always will linger upon the Earth.

She had a purpose, a lesson. 

My path now is to gain that understanding. One day...

Beauty

It's like all of a sudden I've woken from darkness. 

I notice the beauty all around me. 

The bright blue butterflies that come to visit me.  

A little boy tells me Yuna rides on their wings.

I see the flowers blooming, their sweet perfume. 

I feel the sunshine beaming down on my skin. I see the glow of the moon and the millions of stars lighting our skies.

The feel of the earth under my feet.

The salt from the sea.

The sparkle in my children's eyes, the smiles on their faces, the never ending 'I love you'.

I try to imagine you now but you are all of these things.

You surround me

You embrace me

You fill my heart

It aches...

Under the Tree for April

This is the first time I've blogged about the Under the Tree project. You can go to Under the Tree via the button on the sidebar. It's a great way to connect with other mamas. I hope to participate as often as I remember and make some new friends too!

So here are the questions for April.

How long has it been since you lost your child/ren? Has your grief changed at all? Is your life becoming any easier or is it just harder as time passes?

It has been six and a half months since we last held our daughter in our arms. That long since the last time I would kiss her soft cheek, smell her sweet hair and touch her chubby little hands. I think the first few months are filled with shock. I was very ill after our daughter was born, so it was touch and go most of the time. I was living minute by minute just trying to survive. So in reality I didn't have an opportunity to grieve or even acknowledge what was happening around me. It wasn't until now that I really started the grieving process, whatever that may be. So when the shock of leaving your child and saying goodbye subsides you are left with something powerful and raw. You look at the world with different eyes. I swing between different emotions. I have learnt that there is no right or wrong way to live through this. Carly from names in the sand wrote in her story that there are two paths. It will either break you or shape and mould you into who you are. I switch between these two paths on a daily basis. Sometimes I feel like it's going to break me and how on Earth do I keep going. I just do. Some days I think it's harder as the time passes but as I said earlier for me I'm only just beginning my journey.  I've learnt the pain that can accompany love. I've learnt compassion and entered into a sacred circle where so many mothers are standing and sharing stories of loss. Somedays I carry the heaviest of weights upon my shoulders, other days it's lighter. It goes in cycles and eventually you let it pour out of your heart and soul. You pick yourself up and continue walking until you fall down again. Over and over again.

How do you feel when you see pregnant women when you are out and about?

For me as a doula and my whole life being passionate about pregnancy and birth I was left feeling like I had been crushed and shattered. How on Earth could I support women now? What can I offer? But it's a reality that death is also a part of  life. It's the cycle we all endure, most of the time we just don't acknowledge it until we are face to face with it. At first I wanted to go up to pregnant women and scream at them how easily it could all be taken away, of course I didn't! I still have a deep longing when I see pregnant women. I want to be them. I so desperately want to go back to that time when it was all okay. It's almost like a double edged sword because I'm grieving the loss of my womb too. So seeing and being surrounded by pregnant women is like a slap in the face reminding me that I'll never be pregnant again. I no longer have that choice, that's gone too, along with my daughter. There were three babies all born around the same as Yuna was and that is a constant reminder of how old she would have been and the things she would have been doing. Every time I see them I wonder what she would have looked like and that she should be on the floor playing with them. There are so many layers of feelings. I'm slowly working through how to turn what I feel into something useful. I do hope that one day I can share my story and continue to support and offer childbirth education to women and families to birth with love and passion.

Whats your therapy in the aftermath of losing your child/ren? Do you go to counseling? Do you do artwork or some kind of exercise or do you simply just let yourself be? What helps you?

I am lucky to have very caring friends that offer an endless supply of support, I just wish they were closer and I didn't find it so difficult to express myself. It's easier to blog because you can get it out and still be alone, no one sees you crying. I went to a counsellor who specialises in PTSD and that was helpful for the time being but I haven't been again. I didn't feel that talking about it with a counsellor was helping.There are only so many times you can say it over and over. I journal/blog as often as I can. I seem to surround myself in a million tasks in order to escape reality a lot of the time. I was sewing, scrap booking, painting and writing.  I think it's good to do that for a little while but ultimately you have to come back into the real world! I do those things every now and then and it feels good to let go for a while. On a day to day basis I use bush flower essences for PTSD and anxiety, grief and loss which I cannot live without. They get me through the days and allow me to cope better. I go to the gym a couple of times a week and try to do the Yoga classes. I love the feeling of putting headphones in and running it out on the treadmill. It's what I want to do sometimes, just run and run and run and never look back.

I look at her photo's a lot and found great comfort in making slide shows and making our pregnancy and birth DVD, even if i haven't shared it with anyone.

That being said, some days I just be. I do nothing. The washing stays in the laundry, the dishes in the sink and I just go inside my own head and try to breathe. Try to live through another day without Yuna.

To my dear Yuna Jane

Yuna

Your spirit was greater than that of any being I've ever known

it was powerful and raw.

Or maybe it was entiwined with the wild energy it took to carry you and bring you into this world.

Two strong and pure feminine energies swirling and unleashing love and power.

The feeling washing over me like crashing waves.

Your soft wet hair, the first touch and there you were.

Your absolute beauty

You took my breath away.

Soft wet skin, so so white

Heavy and limp.

You were meant to whimper.

Cry!

I rubbed and rubbed

If only I could have breathed for you.

If I could have given my life to you, I would have.

You were meant to rest on my deflated belly and suckle at my breast.

Instead there was silence and stillness 

moving in slow motion 

time ceased to exist.

Your eyes fixed.

Perhaps you were never you?

Maybe you were always within me.

I'll never know, I can only imagine.

I do know that you, my wee womyn were born of this Earth only briefly but your message was clear.

You taught me the fragility of life but also the beauty of life and the lives we've created.

You taught me the beauty of birth and the power of love.

The strength, courage and wisdom within myself.

The importance of passion and following your heart.

I love you Yuna, little butterfly.

Forever our souls entwined and connected.

Halfway through this post I was distracted by 

a fluttering in the corner of my eye. To my suprise I looked out into the sunshine to see the most wonderful blue butterfly. 

A gift from my daughter. 

Thankyou little one!

Six Months

A lot of these posts are transferred from scraps of paper I've scribbled on in random moments of need. It's easier to write those feelings when you first feel them.

Six months have passed. Six whole months. It seems like it was years ago that I was glowing and basking in the joys and anticipation of birth. Only in an instant it was gone.

Faded. 

Dust. 

Nothingness. 

Ashes. 

Time...

Parts of me want to forget. Other parts of me want and so desperately cling to the memories, even the painful ones.

I want it to linger, to stay in those moments, never wanting it to be old or faded.

As someone pointed out to me. I enjoy the melancholy. It's safe sometimes.

So much in my life says 'continue on' or 'it's okay' but I'm struggling with that. I can't do it. I feel so very stuck in this moment. I feel guilt, unnecessary guilt. I'm a mother, I do that. I don't want to move on in fear of losing more of my daughter. I've lost enough already.

How do I ever get to the point where you say it's okay to live and love again? So much around me says 'this is YOUR time'. Signs telling me it's a new beginning, new chapter, new life...

Why? Why? Why?

Do I want to? Do I need to?

I enjoy melancholy. Can't I just be sad?

I'm aching, my whole body physically aches for my daughter. She's not in my arms and it feels so terribly wrong. I literally feel the hurt in my chest. I can't breathe.

There are just not enough tears to explain.

I don't feel I can express myself very well. I find it so difficult to say what I really feel. People can share in stories of loss but each of us are on our own. Our hurt and anger and grief is our own. We own it.

Where am I going? Why make plans. That's it. There were no plans after this. I was going to give birth and parent. There were no plans.

Where do you go when those things are smashed into a million pieces? How do you pick them all up again? I guess you don't pick them up. You just keep going.

Maybe you break a vase, it's irreplaceable so you sweep it into a box and keep it with you, to remember it. A reminder of the beautiful vase you once had.  You eventually buy a new vase. It's beautiful but not quite as lovely as the vase you remember. Maybe it's not the vase that matters but the flowers within it? 

Or maybe you never ever have flowers around you because you cannot imagine flowers without the beautiful vase? I guess you can go either way with your life. I swing between the two at any given moment.

I feel so emotionally dead; numb. I can tell my story a thousand times over without a blink. It's nothing. It's just words. No feeling at all. Is it some kind of self preservation. Save yourself the tears? I do know that if I do try to talk about it with anyone remotely close I cannot get past the first sentence without falling in a heap. Perhaps I need to let that fear go and really feel whatever it is I need to.

Grief is...

"Grief is a sign that we loved something more than ourselves."
Joan Chittister

Grief: Keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.

For me?
Grief is that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that's there when you go to sleep and is still there when you wake.

It's tears streaming down your face as you do the dishes , walk to the post office or eat breakfast.

It's not being able to say what you want to say.

It's wishing you were elsewhere; not being comfortable anywhere.

It is clutching at the memories.

It is violent mood swings.

It is crying in the darkness; in the shower; in the supermarket.

It is long walks to nowhere in particular.

It is confusion, the inability to concentrate.

It is not knowing who you are.

It is obsession.

It is control.

It is overwhelming.

It is consuming.

It is guilt when you forget even for just a moment.

It is crashing waves and pouring rain.

It is never ending.

It is impossible to reason.