...I want to briefly birdwalk to say that I love the irony of calling anything that we go through in this hellishly unnatural grieving process as "completely normal"...
...I know this is completely normal, but I really hate feeling like I'm getting better and handling things better only to have Fate say, "Haha, yeah, I was just screwing with you..."
So here's the vague list of things going on the last few days which dragged me back out into the tide of messy emotions:
- Tomorrow is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Ironically, no one is aware of this. Most people don't have a lot to remember on this day of remembrance. I debated for weeks about what to do for this day to remember for myself. I've decided that, if ever there was a time to publicly acknowledge Charlotte and affirm my pride in being her mother, this would be it.
I have a ribbon pin that I will be wearing tomorrow, and I'll be posting about it on facebook. It's so strange. I don't want sympathy from people, but there is a big piece of me that feels like I need to acknowledge Charlotte and her importance in our lives, publicly, without shame or vagueness. I would have told the world about her within a week of her death if things had been different...why shouldn't they know now?
It scares the shit out of me.
- I know that Charlotte isn't exactly an uncommon name. I know this. Still, it's a bit of a sharp pain when I hear of another little girl named Charlotte. This is particularly true when she is an infant born about a month from when my daughter should have been born. It's not the parents' fault, and they didn't even know, but it's still a little hard to know that there is a family I know who gets to love and hold their little Charlotte when mine is in a pretty silver box in my curio cabinet.
- My message board isn't helping me right now. It's always been that, when all else fails, I know the women on my message board will understand. I've been avoiding it for the last few weeks. Someone posting something about the differences between a stillbirth and an early miscarriage. The world blew up.
My personal thought is that, well, duh, of course it's different. It's a completely different experience all around. I won't call any better or worse than any other, but it's not the same experience. I've done both, with a late miscarriage thrown in for good measure. It's different. So what?
The problem is that women in grief, women with screwed up hormones, women who are on the cusp of motherhood are not always logical. Emotions and tensions are high, and, rather than seeing opposing viewpoints as the venting of women hurting the same as we are, many are taking it as personal offense and are going on the attack.
That's not what my board is about.
Yeah...I just noticed that I've been calling it my board. I think that's part of the issue. I see it as my board. My board. It's something that belongs to me, is part of my life, is central to my healing. And it's being messed with. My haven of support and kind words now has these little pockets of snarkiness and cursing that I just can't handle. It's not my haven any more. I don't have it in my to find a new one.
- I had one of those days today. Those days when I can't think of what happened with Charlotte in terms of vague remembrances and feelings of what happened once. I usually remember Charlotte in the same way one hears things through snow. It's muffled, and quiet. Days like today are the days when I'm overwhelmed by what should be, what could be, and what glaringly, painfully is.
For no apparent reason, I had an urge to go and just SIT in front of my curio cabinet and just be near Charlotte. I had an urge to look through her photos, read through her baby book, smell her tiny gown, touch her footprints.
Nothing conscious caused this. I don't know why, today, I feel a renewed sense of loss. I don't know why, today, I feel a renewed sense of anger. I don't know why, today, I feel a desire to dwell in the memories of what could have been. But I do know that, today, I am grieving harder than I have been in a while.
Sundays are rough like that. It's been 12 weeks today...tonight.
- As much as I tell myself that I write this blog for myself...I get comfort from people reading it. I won't lie, I look at the stat tracker of how many people have been reading which posts. I look to see where they are coming from...America, UK, Australia...I love the idea that people, even faceless, vague internet people, care.
I look at a lot of other blogs. I've bookmarked some of my favorites. There are many talented women out there sharing their experiences of love and loss and motherhood, so very many. In a way, it's a wonderful thing.
Here's my selfish, narcissistic problem with this: I'm not as good at this as all of the other angel-mommy bloggers I read. My writing is juvenile and elementary. My thoughts are repetitive and either self-aggrandizing or self-pitying. When I post photos, though I fancy myself an amateur photographer, they're just not that good.
Every other blog that I read is better than mine. They have 25+ followers. They have a series of comments from people who responded to what they said. They even have a better layout and color palette than mine.
I realize that this is a really, very, incredibly stupid thing to be on my radar as something to be bothered or upset by. Still, I've taken comfort in the faceless, nameless women (I assume women) reading my words. When I have these moments of clarity about how much I'm just not special, it cuts fairly deep.
When Mike is working, and Mia goes to bed, and I am left alone with my thoughts, some days get really hard. So I come here. I come here to whine. I come here to moan. I come here to philosophize (yup, that's a word). I come here to pretend that what I'm saying has meaning. I come here to pretend that I'm special. I come here to take comfort in the time spent on my life by anonymous strangers.
Thank you, anonymous strangers. I needed that.