Monday, April 27, 2009

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.


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.

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