Missing Her

Christmas decorations came down today. Taking down her stocking (and ours) was hard.  Like most things/tasks lately, I just zoned out and went through the motions til it was all done.  It all got boxed up and put away.  I wonder how I'll feel next year when I have to get it all back out - since we were having her, I decorated super early this year - which means all the decorations were up and staring me in the face when we got home without her.  I couldn't bring myself to pack up Coraline's one and only ornament, a glittery purple dragonfly I bought on a whim just a few weeks prior to her birth. It took the place of her stocking on the family coat hooks in the hallway.  Matt said he was really glad we got her a dragonfly, because "she'll always have wings."

I just miss her.  There's all the "what-ifs" and the "next times".  And the guilt, the anger, the fear, the doubt.  There's still the numbness and shockingly acute pain of it all.  And through it all I miss her.  I miss holding her in my arms, watching her "sleep", being at peace. I just... miss her.

I've been foggy all day - can't seem to focus, mundane tasks like organizing have become all I can do to not go completely insane.  Making a new dinner again, just to use what we have in the fridge and feed us.  Matt raves about how "good I'm doing."  I don't feel/see it.  He complimented me on everything and I just stared off into space.  I feel like half the time I can't even look him in the eyes, because I'm ashamed of the hurt I've brought into our family.  He reassures me that it wasn't my fault, but the guilt remains.

A friend of my mother's sent us a card and a letter.  She also lost a daughter, and offered us a "couples getaway" at the local Ritz Carlton, which was unbelievably generous and thoughtful.  It's comforting that people do care, even if they haven't seen us or even met Matt before.  There's a common bond that seems to instantly form between angel moms - no one but us know our pain and the sacrifice we've had to make - no one, not even the father, can feel this loss on our level. 

I feel like now I'm waiting for something - a sign?  A spark of inspiration?  Maybe just to go back to work and have something to fill up my days?  Or to die?  Sometimes it's that - I feel like I'm just waiting to have the courage to leave.  That awkward silence follows me through the day, and no distraction can drown it out.  I thought I was alive before - I had goals and passions and dreams and hope.  It's all gone now, all of it.  Even the good things don't inspire me, don't comfort or console me.  They fade and the emptiness stays, everyday. 

I told myself to wait at least until her birthday passes before we should try again.  What do I do with myself for the next 11 months?  Work at the same shit job as before, where I was miserable?  School is at a standstill since I have no idea what type of career I even want to think about pursuing - it seems everyone else is able to get that perfect job writing, and I'm just stuck with my blogs and stupid feelings.  Right now I'm listening to the rhythmic swooshing of the dishwasher, in an otherwise silent house.  Scanning pictures of Parker so I can build his photo books - I think its me trying to hold on to him as a baby. I miss him when he's not here, too.  I had such a horrible time when he was younger - I wasn't ready, then his father and I split and he was poisoned against me.  Coraline's infant life was going to be so different, raised in an environment full of love - now we'll never get to see that happen.  I wasn't ready for Parker, but we were so ready for Coraline - why this juxtaposition?  Why the horrible bad after the good intent?  I was going to relish in being a mother this time around, instead of worrying about everything else, I was going to appreciate it.  I wanted this so badly.

The things I want never pan out.  The only exception is Matt, and even that I've managed to screw up countless times.  I don't know how he deals with me and my moods and my temperment and my temper.  I don't know how I deserve someone as good as he is, when I'm as broken as I am.

And there it goes again - the stabbing pain in my gut.  The emptiness, the void, the constant reminder that she's not there.  I was quite over being pregnant, but I find myself still going to rub my own stomach, and she's not there.  She was only ever alive inside of me, and I am grateful for the 38 weeks I had with her - but I wanted countless more.