19 February 2017

I Have a Letter

I don't know where it is. I don't remember what it says.

I know the sentiment like the back of my hand. It plays on repeat in my mind every day.

I miss you.

I love you.

I will protect you.

I couldn't protect you.

It loops through behind my eyes when people speak to me. When people presume to know me.

It's why I don't let them know me.


I miss her

I love her

I WILL protect her

And in the most defeating way, like that cocky breath you take right before the world makes you completely powerless, I exhale

And she is


Like the minutes in the car staring at the front door
Like the empty space in my chest at the end of the night
Like the pressure in my throat
Like the heartbroken sigh of deep, unavoidable loss

I carry my baby with me like a physical weight

That weight in my arms, that emptiness, is all I have left of her

I won't let it go

I won't move on

She belongs here at my chest, wrapped up in me, kept safe where I could not keep her alive

15 February 2017

Do it

Something the Mindy Project said.  Something about being so used to someone criticizing you, that when they are gone, you fill that hole.  You already push, but now you judge, too.

It's like a drug.  Self punishment.  Skipping happily into risky situations.  Leaving the result up to someone else, to the moment.

Getting close enough to smell it.

Walking the edge of the fence.

Toying with the sharp side.

Maybe this will be an incredible thing.  Maybe I will grow within an atmosphere of watchful awareness and self analysis.

Maybe I've found another of him.  Playing games with me until he finds he one that gets under my skin, because once you're under there, you have control of all my strings.

I'll walk along that edge and see.

I'll ride this out and see how it goes.

Who will I allow to push me?

09 February 2017

How Do You Write About It?

Do I say it runs my life mechanically?
That it tastes like cloves?
That some mornings I don’t get up?
That some mornings I know I should never have gotten up?
Do I recite memories that cycle through my head daily?
Do I describe hypervigilance?
Do I explain the crippling, all-consuming halt my thoughts and actions come to when someone mentions a trigger?
Confess the shame of being alive despite, or the horror of not being in the right universe, or
Maybe I write about the misery of not recognizing my “wrong” baby as my own?
Should I quote the songs from that time that still make me sob?
What about the disorientation?

How do you discuss grief. What IS grief.

I’m broken and to play it back again is to lay here in the bed and give up like I should have when they told me I had to make a choice.

Nothing About Grief (TW)

My fingers are timid.  They touch the wood of the bedroom door.  Graze against the rough surface.  Is this my home?  Is it time to give up on the day and go to sleep in the bed in the mess in the house I don't own by the child who doesn't know under the row of soft drink cans on a mattress on a carpet on a foundation on dirt that isn't in the right place?


I touch the door.  Twist the handle as softly as I can, and slowly, quietly ease it open.

In that moment, through the suffocating door frame.

Like those moments, through the front door.

Or those moments, out of the car.

A transition.

It's hard to go through doors.  It always has been, but now the weight is tangible.  Now I feel the mask around my face.  Now I want to be naked.


I have a hard enough time being sure that I am where I am.  Now I sit here on the couch, wondering where I am emotionally.  Mentally.  Grammatically.

Tell me why I even made the call if I was too fear-struck to do the real work.

It's a knee jerk.  A tensing of muscles.  An immediate and overwhelming NEED to run for the door, to physically get away.  It's thinking about how many steps to the door.  It's a spinning of wheels while I simultaneously prepare for defense and analyze how many of my cracks have been spotted.

That's it, isn't it?

Locking eye contact and listening to every syllable while I try to determine how much of myself has been exposed and how can I disarm the situation without showing weakness.


Just tell me where you are.

Just open the door.  Look at it.  And tell me.


Tonight I am upset because I read through my old text posts.  I saw revelations being had over and over again as though they were brand new.

That's what it is.

I'm not any better.  I.  Am there again.  I am there again.


Where are you at with your grief.

I'm exactly where I was before.

I'm laying in the bed at his parent's house, the sun coming through the sheer blinds and hitting the pale blue comforter.  The basal body temperature thermometer is on the speaker on top of the safe that serves as a side table.  The mess of prenatal vitamin bottles, snacks, trash, drinks, and clothes are piled up along the edge of the bed.

With the pregnancy journal, green, with its strap keeping it shut.  I can't look at it.

The phone was in my hand when I heard Kari was pregnant.

The phone was in my hand when the doctor said "it will probably take all weekend."

I played the song that broke my heart over and over again, and when Jack was taking up that space, I played it to him, too.  AJ laying next to me, oblivious, with his book of fetal development complete with transparent stacking illustrations.

My heart was breaking again and again each time I woke up, and he was telling me what size the new baby was.  And I was nodding along because THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO DO.

I just laid there after they took her away from me.

I just laid there

I wrote her a letter

The people on the phone

My mom, upset that I hadn't told her until I was on the way to the ER.  My boss, upset that I even wanted to have a baby.  Why do you fuckers even have opinions on this.

Picking fights over the island in the kitchen over everything, because WHY ARE YOU NOT UPSET.  Just at least remember that I can be upset, that I get to be upset, that I have no choice but to be upset, that this person isn't even in here anymore and it is all I can do to keep moving around.

Did they think I had any level of control?

Do I have control now?

Counting everything out.  Walking the same number of paces.  Chewing my lip to pieces.  Keeping the clean clothes, food, and water in the car.

"Yes I know what you think of me, you never shut up"

Where am I?

Where am I.

I don't fucking know how to answer that.

My baby is dead.  I'm not there.  I'm not anywhere.  She's in the trash and I'm walking around like a living person would.

It's not reconcilable.

I will try this again later.

03 February 2017

Control and Focus

Over the past nine days I've been wondering whether or not I was worth his time.  Self worth, that is the question after all, isn't it?

"Bitch it's called SELF. ESTEEM."

Last night I was thinking about how I needed the question marks to end.  I crave stability like I crave oxygen.  Information is a drug. flipping the switch on neurotransmitters, sending a rush of calm and peace.

So instead of waiting until two weeks went by, my arbitrary allotted amount of acceptable angst, I sent a text:

Hey you. I know you are probably still dealing
with stuff, or at least I'm guessing you are. If
there's any way you could shoot me a text and let
me know if you are still interested (or even like, if
you're doing ok), it'd put my mind at ease a bit.
You've been so quiet, I'm not really sure what's up.

And with that, I communicated my feelings without behaving needy or accusatory.  With that I gave up the reigns on my own terms, leaving the door open, but as a participant instead of a helpless witness.

My mind is open this morning.  There was no text on my phone when I woke up.  That's fine.

Because this gives me the space to focus on myself.  Space that I needed in my brain, which is still outgrowing its little pot, spreading outward, reaching into parts of me I missed and needed, parts that stuck just out of reach, starved of nutrition and development.

Space to look at my day as a slew of positive or simply present opportunities instead of a vehicle that drags me running behind it.  Space to interact.  To recognize my needs and limits.

Space to not only be comfortable, but to allow myself to be uncomfortable.

I want control and autonomy back, and I can when I want to now.

Not because of a text, but because of the choice to text.

I don't know which pill that is.  But my eyes are open, at least for today, and I am going to keep looking until I understand.

01 February 2017

Where Am I At

Some moments I see myself, and I wonder if I am overreacting.  Everybody loses people.  Sometimes in worse ways - frequently in worse ways.  Shouldn't I be past this?  It's done.  Shouldn't I be functional?

Your baby is dead.  It was years ago.  Your life has moved forward, sometimes without you.  Get over it.  Catch up.  WAKE up.

But then I think.

If I can survive without her.

It's like she doesn't matter.

If I stop talking about her, thinking about her, obsessing over her, she won't be a part of my life anymore.  I will invalidate her by breathing when she isn't.  By living when she isn't.  By smiling, occupying space, fighting for my needs, confiding in people, feeling happy, I stamp out her memory.

By not telling people about the date tattoo on my ankle, I lie.

By saying I have two children, I lie.

By saying I am happy.

I lie.

And should it really be this way?  Is my life so ruined?  I'm here.  But I'm not here at all.

I'm on the wrong train.  Speeding along as time chugs and spins, every minute taking me further away from those few days, weeks, moments we were together, whether I want to acknowledge, heal, or dwell.


A man walks into the shop and past Derek and I on the couches.  He speaks over the counter to Jeremy about the tattoo he wants to get.  A footprint from the hospital.  Stillborn.  The artifacts from a life missed, a body on the wrong train.  That mark in the skin, that small and audacious link, that tiny effort to connect across the dimensions, to keep the family together, to keep a baby with you when you never got to hold them.

I start to tap my phone.  I flip it against the back of my hand.  I stare at the sidewalk through the window.

I am thinking about those hours in my car, within sight of the front door.  Unable to go in, lost and unsure of where I wanted to be.  Wondering if I had the strength to go inside when I didn't want to.

Derek pops me on the arm with his drawing pad.  Says hey.  Gestures to the screen.

I don't have to say anything.  He knows what I'm thinking about.  He knows I need to watch The OA on Netflix.  Come back to the train.

Move forward.