It’s 2:00. I’m alone in a cafe, having spent the past two hours in a intense therapy session. I took an additional two hours after with Bella at her hourly care so I can work.
It’s my last week of my current term of school. Lots to do there.
I haven’t written here in a while. Several in drafts.
I have calls to make. Appointments to check.
And here I sit. Scrolling through pages mindlessly as I avoid this. Writing.
Because I feel like I should be ok. My writing should be about me healing. I’m healing y’all! Expecting a surprise baby and I’m just healing away over here.
I’m pregnant. It’s a girl. Things are good so far. Sunday was Preston and Julian’s birthday – 3 years. And we spent a quiet day at home together.
I waver between feeling guilty for still grieving so, so hard – feeling guilty for not grieving enough – and feeling guilty that I can’t put this behind me.
When I was newly pregnant with Kaden I read a comment on here about my grief. Terrified of losing him, and missing the twins so much, I poured my heart out. And she asked why I couldn’t just be happy with what I had now and stop being so caught up in the loss of the twins.
That comment has haunted me. I often wonder what she thought, if she even knew, when she heard Kaden died too.
Maybe she still wonders why I just can’t be happy.
I’m so tired of being sad – ever. So tired of being different. I am so tired of having to prep myself with an “elevator pitch” for my life when I go out in public and get random, normal comments that leave me wondering what to say back. I’m tired. There are days I wish I could lay in bed and watch The Good Wife for hours on end. Yet I know at the end of the day I’d feel more – guilty.
You didn’t do today right Diana. You failed at today.
When I was a new mom, and Bella was ever so small, I took solace in my friend’s new motherhood too. We were all in the same stages of normal – crying babies, exhaustion, never ending diapers. It was comforting to realize we were all on about the same track, even mentally.
I feel so alone in this.
Most women I know that have walked through loss have had their story redeemed in some way. Another child, an adoption, a life calling. I went through another loss. I carry this baby with so much fear and trepidation (yes, I know this isn’t great for her, thank you) because nothing is safe anymore. Good ultrasounds are – meaningless when you consider Kaden’s were all stellar. 24 weeks doesn’t mean viability. It means I’m 24 weeks closer to whatever is going to happen. Birth just means I have to be on guard for any slips or mistakes the medical staff could make in giving her medications that might cause a reaction.
I feel like a ping pong ball. Back and forth. The constant struggle to “be thankful” and “stay positive” and “focus on the good” and the screaming torrent of thoughts that come with that of, “You can’t be serious Diana.”
Nothing fixes this. No words, no reassurance. My therapist wants me to sit in my feelings. I feel like that’s all I’ve ever done. Yet I know each time I short circuit the pain because I’m so tired of hurting and fearing and trying to search for a comparison to what I’m dealing with. I’m so tired of careless comments and people wondering if I’m ever going to be ok again.
Spoiler alert: nope.
I want to ask people I come across – do you understand? Have you had a trauma – twice? Can we be friends so I can tell you the deepest, most hateful, dark, sad, horrific parts of me and my story? Then we can laugh at how we both feel that way and everyone else thinks we’re insane. We can giggle at stupid comments and the awkwardness of life as it is with so much to tuck away when we go out. Can we find our new normal together and keep each other going?
That’s what I keep searching for. Some kind of a connection in this. Or a redemption in my story. Something that ties this all together, that makes me able to say, “This happened, and this is what I do because of it.”
I’m not there.