DDP Yoga

So, I've finally entered into a workout regimen.  For anyone who knows me, they know I hold several things to be absolute fact.  One - I love my children more than life itself.  Two - IKEA makes the best stuff and I hate the fact that my city doesn't have one causing me to drive 2 hours to get my Swedish furniture fix.  And Three - I. Don't. Workout.

Period.  The End.  I just don't - its not my thing.  I don't enjoy being sweaty.  I hate tying up my sneakers, squishing myself into a sports bra (that is NOT designed for big girls no matter WHAT the tag says), and wobbling around like a walrus on a tightrope for an hour, ending up gross and hurt and tired.

After sweating my ass off on our exercise bike, listening to Nerd Poker and forcing myself to do something even though I hated every second of it, I got frustrated (somewhat deservedly) with my husband.  Here's our convo:

Me:  I'm exhausted and I hate this and I'm fat and it's not working and I hate myself.
Matt:  I'm sorry.  You'll get there.  (returns to playing video games)
Me:  I'm doing this so we can try again, so I can be healthy and fit by the time we're ready to try for another baby.
Matt:  And I support you every step of the way.  (keeps killing zombies or monsters or robots or whatever onscreen)
Me:  (glare at him til he notices)
Matt:  What?
Me:  Well, I have to do all this work to get healthy, so we can have a healthy pregnancy/baby in the future.  And you have to do....?
Matt:  I guess I should do something too, huh?
Me:  It'd be nice.

So, to his credit, he found DDP Yoga.  Yes, Diamond Dallas Page, the wrestler, created a yoga program.  It started off as YRG - Yoga for Regular Guys - and progressed to a unisex program which, according to the catchphrase, you make your own.  I decided to try it with Matt, since I thought it'd be an easy intro to working out for someone who gets panic attacks walking into a gym.

Wow. Okay, my only yoga experience prior to this was on a management training seminar in Hawaii about 15 years ago - gorgeous setting, but way too focused on centering my Chaka-Khans or whatever.  I'm not into that.  This was intense.  Strength training, resistance, energy - without weights, bands, equipment or shoes.  That's the other great part of it - all I need is a mat.

It took a while for me to be okay with doing things for myself.  Every part of my brain was screaming "No, this is wrong - you shouldn't have this free time, you should be caring for your baby."  And part of my brain still screams at me whenever I do anything for myself.  But the yoga is part of a long term goal - to get to a healthy weight again so I will be comfortable trying for another baby.  So I set short term goals; exercise for 5 days a week minimum, eat healthy, get good rest, stay active and positive.

Most importantly, I'm taking care of myself again, probably better than I have in a long time, including before I was pregnant. And I'm doing it for myself, and I'm doing it for Coraline.  Everything I do is done in part for her - to honor her, to cherish her memory, to keep it alive inside me and become a beacon of strength and hope.  I'm getting hope back again.  DDP ends every session with "You can do this.  You can own this."  And that is my new mantra.

I love you, Coraline.  I don't say it enough, but I always feel it.  I will keep living for her.

The One With The Sonogram At The End

You know, I really should have known better.  It's in the title for crying out loud.

Ever since Netflix and the subsequent cancelling of our cable service, I've developed "temporary addiction disorder association".  The 'association' is there only so I can call it TADA!  I digress...

I hate waiting.  Patience is not one of my better virtues.  The months leading up to the next GoT season have been arduous, at best.  That said, I really enjoy being able to watch entire series without commercial interruption or season-ending cliffhangers.   I've watched Firefly, Scrubs, Burn Notice, My Name Is Earl, South Park, etc., all in this manner.

Enter one of my long-time favorite shows - Friends.  Which is NOT available on Netflix.  Bastards.  So, off I go to the interwebs in search of season one.  Get through the pilot episode and on to episode 2 - The One With The Sonogram At The End.  Staring me in the face like a big, blinking traffic light.  I hit play.  I enjoy the show, kind of oblivious despite the trip to the OB's office and the discussion of baby names.  Then, just as Ross is about to walk out of the room, I hear it.

Wub-wub-wub-wub-wub-wub.

If you try to force air out of your ears and count rhythmically, that's what it sounds like.  An echo-y, almost ethereal beat, like the kids haven't found the Jumanji game in the attic yet.  The sound completely threw me.  I was brought back instantly, to the first time we heard her heartbeat, the gender reveal ultrasound when my husband had tears in his eyes, and then the final ultrasound that was silent and heartbreaking (world destroying is also an applicable description).  Remembering... remembering, reliving and hurting all over again.  I ripped my headphones off and began sobbing.

I want that back.  I want to hear Coraline's heart beating, to know she was safe inside of me.  I want to feel her move again.  I want so many things I can never ever ever have. So many things, but really just one - just her.

Can I have some novocaine, too?

I feel so bad for my dental hygienist.

First, she had the privilege of me as a patient.  Let me bring you up to speed on my dental history:

1987 (oh yeah, I'm that old) - Six teeth pulled (baby teeth) due to overcrowding.  Top two and bottom four.  I hated it, but my adult teeth were coming in and the baby ones would not budge.  I got ice cream afterwards, so score.

1988 - 1992 - Several more baby teeth pulled when they wouldn't budge.  I think I've only lost about 10 teeth "naturally".  Somewhere in here I also have four premolars and four molars pulled. Permanent teeth.  Yep.  I have 24 teeth.  And my mouth is still crowded.

1993 - The Great Braces Debacle begins. I get spacers, bands, brackets, wires, the whole nine.  I'm a hip early nineties kid, so I go for the practically invisible neon pink and green rubber bands.  I'm in them for three years.

1996 - Braces come off, retainers go on.  I accidentally throw one in the trash compactor in the school cafeteria and spend a full class period digging through rejected lunches and empty pudding cups.  I added my own regurgitated offering to the pile when I was done.

1997 - Wisdom teeth get pulled - four of 'em.  I'm knocked out but right back up that evening.  Chumbawumba, dude.

1998 - 2008 - Pretty regular dental history. They try to convince me to have jaw surgery to realign my overbite. This does not happen, and I deal with it.  (insert sunglasses)  Unfortunately, teeth go back to crowded and crooked, despite the previous measures.

2013 - I return to the dentist, this morning, after a forgotten absence of 5 years.  Good news - still zero cavities.

Bad news?  Aside from the discomfort of cleaning ultra-sensitive gums with a pointy metal stick, I have a full on panic attack and end up bawling like a three-year-old who just dropped their lollipop in ants.  ANTS.

I have no idea why the dentist of all places got to me.  The television was on, some stupid "eligible doctor" special on Dr. Oz.  So nothing triggering there.  No one was talking about babies, mentioning children, there weren't even any kids present that early in the a.m.  No 'Parenting' magazines in plain site, no preggos, no pictures even.  Nothing that you think would trigger such an emotional reaction.

Since I had gone five years (!!) without a cleaning, I knew it was going to be painful.  My gums are always super sensitive and lets be honest - who likes someone poking around your gumline with metal prongs?  I wasn't prepared for the emotions it dredged up, however.  I was cringing, literally writhing in the chair, grabbing one thumb in a vice with the other hand and squeezing my eyes shut as tight as possible.  She noticed my distress and asked if I needed a minute.  And the tears started streaming down the side of my face.

She got me a tissue and left me alone for a while.  I couldn't help it, I had to cry.  I cried because it hurt.  I cried because it was something I put off while I was pregnant, and doing it was a cold reminder of why I was now able to. I cried because my daughter would never cut her first tooth, or lose it, or even have to endure braces.  I cried and cried and cried, alone in that mobile chair, while Judge Alex prattled on in the background.

The hygienist returned and, as is usual in most cases when I have a breakdown, I apologized.  She was nothing but sympathetic.  I explained we had just experienced a really difficult loss, and for some reason I was having a really hard time.  I think I'd put my emotions on the back burner for a while, and the physical pain just hit a nerve, both literally and figuratively.

Then she asked questions - she asked how far along I was, what happened.  How I was dealing with it, what our plans are.  This woman I hadn't seen in several years, to whom I should have been nothing more than just a file on a shelf, asked about my baby.  We talked, she finished the cleaning, and gave me suggestions on keeping better care of my gums in order to have a healthy pregnancy next time.  She has a son the same age as Parker, and we spoke of how much we worry, no matter how old they get or how many eye-rolls and "Mo-omm!"'s we get.  She teared up a little while we talked.

It's been a weird day.  I'm glad my teeth were "ooh shiny" since I had an unexpected mini-interview at work (fingers crossed!).  Then I read my forums and cried.  Then I focused on work.  Driving home I heard a song and teared up.  Got home and I was fine again.  It's not even a "rollercoaster" of emotions - I've been on rollercoasters, I enjoy them.  It's more like a tornado - it sweeps in, seemingly out of nowhere, destroys everything along a mile-long path, and vanishes into the sky as quickly as it came.  It never announces where or when it's touching down, how long it will last, or how bad the damage will be.  It's enough to make me want to dive underground, and seek shelter until it passes.

PHCC

“I mean now it’s just soooo simple – you go in for a c-section and you’re done!”

 “I know! Pregnant women have it sooo easy these days!”

*sigh*  People having careless conversations.  PHCC.  I think it needs to be new medical terminology.  “Why’d she go all guano-psychosis on them?” “It was a tragic result of PHCC.”

Another reason I would really prefer working from home – so I wouldn’t be exposed to this nonsense for 9 hours per day.  The women who constantly mention how “pwecious” their “gwandchiwldwen” are.  That’s not a name from a Tolkien novel, that’s ridiculous 50+year-old women baby talk for their children’s offspring.  Then the women who bring their children into a business they no longer work at.  Cause its fun to try and talk on the phone over a screaming infant.  

Look, I understand I cannot avoid every conversation or mention of children, pregnancy, babies, etc.  Especially in public - I realize the world keeps spinning even though mine has come to a standstill and I'm being dragged through it, face down, across a combination of hot asphalt, shattered glass slivers and an ass-puckering lemon juice finish. But when you work in a close setting with someone who has experienced a tragic loss, where Til Tuesday’s words ring oh so true (keep it down now, voices carry), you’d hope your coworkers would think twice before opening their Cheetos-stained gaping face holes.  Nothing against Cheetos, really, they're delicious - but in my opinion, an adult leaving greasy, crusty orange-colored crumbs all over their keyboard and phone is just as bad as that toddler running around Walmart in a saggy diaper and permanent Kool-Aid moustache.  Klassy with a Kapital 'K'.  I'm off topic... and hungry.

Then there's the ones who blatantly stare at me like I’m going to jinx them into having a similar experience.   I really want to jump out at them, yell “ooga booga!” wearing an African tribal mask and blow baby powder in their eyes.  I don’t practice Santeria, but…  “Officer, she couldn’t help it – it was the PHCC.”  “Case dismissed.” 

Comfort and healing

Matt & I just returned from an amazing weekend away together.  A couple from my mom's church who experienced a similar loss several years ago gave us an unforgettable gift of time to heal together and be with each other.  We spent the weekend at the Ritz-Carlton in Amelia Island, in a room with a stunning balcony view of the beautiful Atlantic and a fantastic time bonding and healing as a couple.

Words cannot express how touched we were when this couple wrote to us and offered to do this for us.  We had talked about taking a weekend trip together, just the two of us, out of town somewhere - but this was way more lavish than anything we could have dreamed.  We spent the  hours in the pool and hot tubs, by warm fireplaces (it was 32 degrees out! In FLORIDA!), sitting on our balcony (by far the LARGEST in the entire resort) sipping champagne and nibbling on chocolate covered strawberries.  We were totally pampered and spoiled and for once, I allowed it.  I let go and permitted my brain to shut off that constant worry and fear, and enjoyed myself thoroughly.

Our first night was amazing - we dined in the upscale restaurant Salt, on food items completely foreign to us.  I learned that foie gras is goose liver, and surprisingly tasty. And shiraz goes well with lamb (omg, also so tasty).  It was great to get dressed up and have an ultra "fancy" time.  New dress, heels, makeup - even had the husband looking nice. :)

They also arranged a couples massage in the spa - if you've never had a full spa experience, I highly recommend it.  It was incredibly relaxing (once I got over the whole "OMG strange people touching me" fear) and soothing.  Neither one of us had ever even gone to a day spa, and this full service experience was out-of-this-world.  We spent time together in the relaxation lounge, munching on chocolate covered pretzels and drinking apple-ginger tea, with Himalayan salt rock foot warmers and cucumbers for our eyes.  Then we had our 90 minute healing bath and massage - was a little apprehensive when we stripped to take a jacuzzi bath in the buff together.  But we were left alone, and it was relaxing with infrared lights and bubbles!  We were also in the room together for our massage, which was nice (even though Matt was nearly asleep and I think I drooled a little...)  The lavender aromatherapy lotion was the BEST, and we stopped at a health food store on the way home to pick some up.  They gave us a Moroccan oil hair/scalp treatment and foot scrub as well.  Like I said, I drooled a little.  If I had a credit card with no limit, I'd be addicted.

I think we are starting to heal.  Nowhere near "cured" or "whole", mind you, but taking steps and getting there.  This trip was an unbelievably generous extension of love, that we hope to one day pay forward and help another couple heal.  The support we have received throughout this horrendous experience has left us speechless and cushioned the falls we take time and again. Coraline's gift to us was to show us the beauty and love this world holds, how strangers will lift you up and ease your pain, that kindness exists and is shared without expected reciprocity, and how very fortunate we are to share the journey with such compassionate friends.

On the way out, in addition to a lego-like robot for Parker, we found a beautiful picture frame with a silver dragonfly charm on it - so I was able to get a souvenir for both of my children.  That warms my heart beyond measure.

Mister McF*cknugget

After an appointment with my shrink today, things are looking... different.  I don't know if I can say better, yet, but I am working towards breaking the cycle of negativity that comes from within.

My husband asked me to personify the voice in my head (I know, voice in my head - crazy, right? Really, it's just me, telling myself I'm no good, etc.) - he wanted me to put a face, a name, a persona to it, so I wasn't fighting myself all the time.  And what I pictured was extremely odd but made so much sense.  It's a well-dressed, slender man (think Don Draper meets Mr. Smith from Matrix) with a blank "everyman" face, except for the arrogant smirk he gets when he knows I'm beaten down beyond all measure.  He sits with one leg propped on the other, hands clasped in a "I'm-too-cool-to-be-bothered" nonchalant way, smirking and staring at me.

I even came up with a name for him - Mister McF*cknugget.

MMFN:  Hi, Joy - you know you suck, right?
Me: I know.
MMFN:  Everything you do is bad and you should feel bad.  You deserve everything you get, because you're a terrible person and destined to suffer.
Me: You're right.
MMFN:  Here, I've brought some old movies - lets replay every instance in which you were ever embarrassed or rejected, on repeat.  For funsies I also brought along all the people who've hurt you and hate you.
Joy: Okay.
 MMFN:  Popcorn?
Joy: Sure, than-
MMFN: (snatches bowl away) No, no, you shouldn't - you look like Jabba the Hutts diabetic mother.

And on, and on, and on...  this guy won't shut up.  He likes to poke his head in whenever I'm feeling down about something, just to keep that self-hate train going, to drive me further and further into the depths.  Then there's this...

MMFN:  So... how are things?
Joy: Um... okay, I guess.
MMFN:  Nothing bad happened recently?
Joy:  Not that I can think of.  Actually, things are looking up, I just found out-
MMFN: WAIT.  IT WILL GET WORSE.
Joy:  But-
MMFN: NOPE. YOU SUCK.
Joy: Aw, that's not nice...
MMFN:  So's your face.

He really is a prick.

So my new focus is shutting him up.  Or ignoring him, but then he degenerates into a kid poking a dead jellyfish with a stick, but never gets stung.  He doesn't feel pain, but absolutely revels in mine.  Here's how I'd like to see the conversation go in the future...

MMFN:  You're terrible.
Joy:  I know (whistles).
MMFN:  Why are you so happy?  Your daughter's death was your fault and you deserved it.  You have a horrible life and will never amount to anything.
Joy:  Well, that's just not true.  And it's my life, not yours.
MMFN: Nu-uh!  I own you!
Joy:  But I'm terrible, right?
MMFN:  Well... yeah.
Joy:  So why would you want to claim possession over such a broken, awful being?  It makes you no better than me, according to you.
MMFN:  But... wait, but...
Joy:  And I don't have to be perfect, or right, or even good all the time.  I just have to keep trying, and accept my faults, and forgive myself.
MMFN:  But... you can't - you're permanently flawed and you suck and your face is stupid!  Stupid, I tell you!
Joy:  Hey, uh, MMFN?
MMFN:  What?
Joy:  F*ck off and die in a fire.
MMFN: Nooooo!!! (fades to pixelated nothingness like Sark in Tron)

I think I need more help than I'm getting currently, but it's a start.

Aaaand right back down.

It seems every day turns to crap.  I wish it didn’t, but every single day seems to degenerate into a horrible nightmare, even when nothing goes wrong.  I might wake up with renewed optimism, only to have it utterly destroyed by the time I get home.

I told Matt last night that I’m pretty much done with hope.  I’m done with anticipation of the future, except for the inevitable bad.  The other shoe is always positioned just above my head, waiting to fall at any second.  It only takes one thing for me to spiral out of control into the depression and panic attacks.  It only takes half of a bad thing to eclipse all of the good and leave me balled up in a corner, shaking and crying.

I didn’t want to end up this way.  But here I am – a wreck.  A complete mess, someone who can barely control my own movements or thoughts.  A terrified, irrational shell of a person, too weak to fight back and too tired to go on.  I hate life.  I hate the sun when it rises and sets.  I even hate things I used to love, just because I used to love them.  I hate the people around me who are nothing but positive – cause it’s not realistic, and when I feel like a beaten, broken woman, the last thing I want to see are plastered fake smiles.

I am living everyday in hell.  I can't even choke down food right now - I had a cup of coffee, which I'm sure was terrible for my already agitated state.  I can’t stop grinding my teeth, and then I get horrible headaches.  My hair is falling out in clumps.  I look in the mirror and hate everything I see.  Everything I am just looks awful.

I was actually really happy (for half a second) that this blog got so many views – it meant that other people were reading Coraline’s story, and mine, and that part of her is still alive, if only in memory.  I had an iota of hope because I actually got a call about a position within my company that I applied for.  I picked up the dress I’m wearing to my friend’s wedding.  Then I got home and tried it on.  It was all over after that.  I felt like a walrus.

I wait for the bad now, it's never far around the corner.  If something positive happens, I'm waiting for the catch.  We are going away this weekend, on a wonderful trip, and I can't even relax enough to enjoy it because I'm constantly thinking of what is going to go wrong.  I need this - WE need this - and I'm just worried I'm going to screw it up like everything else.

I could put 19 different labels on the psychological issues I have – depression, anxiety, paranoia, post-partum, PTSD,  body dysmorphia…  but labels don’t help.  Neither do meds anymore.  I feel trapped - inside my body, inside my head, inside this life, with no way out.  Just drowning.

Ten years ago today I was bringing my first-born home from the hospital.  Today I will go home and my second-born won't be there, just like every day.  I'm trying.  I know it doesn't sound like it, but Christ, I'm trying.  I've been trying, and failing, so hard every day.  I've had to be strong waaaay too long, and its taking a toll on me and my husband.  I don't know what to do anymore.  I want to be that positive person, that optimist, that spark of light in the darkness.  But I've been extinguished, and I don't know what is going to bring it back, or if it's coming back.

“Replacement” Baby

When a ship sinks, the water surrounding it rushes in to fill the emptiness it once occupied.  It’s easy to get caught in the swirling vortex created by such a gaping hole, to be sucked down into the depths, fighting for air and often being blind and disoriented, unable to find your way out.  Coraline’s death left that hole in our life, we’re just trying to plug the drain.  We try to fill it with work, or school, or writing, or blogs and forums, friends and lunch dates, Netflix and Skyrim.  But it's never completely healed, it's never the same.  The bottom of the sea is scarred with wreckage.

There seems to be a huge stigma over “rainbow” babies being “replacement” babies.  Although Matt & I are nowhere near ready, personally, to conceive again, I’m here to set the record straight:

Yes.  Our next child will somewhat be a “replacement” for Coraline.

And that’s not always a horrible thing.  Had she survived, I doubt we would try again – I probably would have been perfectly content with my 2 children, my boy and my girl, and left it at that.  But my daughter is gone, before we even had a chance to bring her home.  And there is the vacant spot where our hearts beat for her.  The love is still there, but there is nothing tangible to attach it to.

It is natural to want to try for another.  To know that we are capable, willing, and brave enough to try again.  Scared shitless, but plunging forward into another 8+ months of hell and uncertainty, just for the chance to bring a person into this world and surround them with love.  Never forgetting or really replacing our first baby girl, but adding to our family and continuing the love we had for her.

Yes, I've considered killing myself

Well, there you have it.  I can't imagine a mother who's lost a child wouldn't think this at some point.

What they don't tell you is that it's an extremely normal feeling to have.  That it's okay to have these feelings, that it's part of mourning your baby, your pregnancy, and the life you planned.

They don't talk about the physical pain - the phantom contractions long after labor has passed, the hollow echo where your heart should be, the stabbing pounding in your skull.  And that's not even the worst part.

No one speaks about the depths to which you sink - when the shock wears off and your eyes are red from sobbing - after you've punched inanimate objects (i.e. a wall) in anger and screamed yourself hoarse.  When you're finished making memorial plans and dedications to your lost baby, after you've left the house again and tried to settle back into a normal routine.  When you finally start to find peace again, no one warns you that it is the calm of the storm, when the worst things happen.

You are now numb.  You wear a blank face and trod about in a gray world of non-emotion.  Your days are driven by automation, some force is driving you through it, but not forward.  You even smile, and laugh, and write and sing and all those things you once loved.  But they are all empty.  So that even when you think you are starting to gain happiness again, you are not.

And the emptiness consumes everything.  The void takes over and you give in.  I don't think most people who kill themselves are hysterically crying right in the middle of it.  I don't believe they are furious and full of anger.  I think they are calm, rationalizing their actions and planning each step carefully.  And sometimes its not even you planning it.

I never understood it before.  How someone could add it onto their "to-do" list for the day, as nonchalantly as adding milk to the grocery list - go to work, pick up the kids, make dinner, fold laundry, kill myself.  The thoughts are ever present, they weave themselves into your daily thinking so that they become part of your routine.  It almost becomes an afterthought - if I have time, maybe I'll do it today.  Or maybe not, we'll see how many dishes need to be washed and if I'm up to it. 

I find myself giving into a lot of suggestions because its easier than thinking for myself.  "Let's do this." "Okay."  Much easier than trying to make my own decisions.  And it's like that with the suicidal thoughts - "Hey, you should just do it." "Okay."  But something still makes me resist.  Or maybe I just haven't gotten around to it yet.  I'm worried one day I'll just walk towards it without even thinking -the voice in my head will urge me to do it, and I'll cave.  Not because I'm depressed, or sad, or angry, but because I'm so lost that any direction - even a final one - will seem to be the right path.   Or just a path, in the absence of others.  Not because I'm weak, or tired of being strong, but because I'm just done and absent of all feeling.

Every day you escape is both a success and a failure.  You've survived another day in spite of the hurt, the pain, and sometimes the absence of all feeling.  You've maneuvered around stupid comments, and insensitive people, and the empty house and closed off room.  But you're not living - you're just avoiding death for now.  He's the black-hooded figure sitting in the armchair in your living room, hands clasped around his scythe, waiting.  He's got all the time in the world - Death is both patient and impetuous.  He is the impartial third party - He makes no promises you will see your baby again, He makes no promises at all beyond the finality and inevitability of the grave.  His offer is always on the table - the same offer everyday, whether you choose to accept it is up to you.

Every day a song

Every day I seem to get a different song stuck in my head.  Sometimes multiple songs.  Often depends on what I listen to, but sometimes they come randomly.  Several from Les Mis, even though by all accounts the lack of rhythmic rhyme drives my OCD up the wall.  I can't say I always find comfort in the lyrics - often they plague me and bring me to tears if I focus on them too long - but they run through my brain nonetheless.

Today it's been "Lovely Ladies".  Just happened to be the last song I heard on the way into work.  It has no special meaning or coincidence, like most things in my life seem to now.  It just is.  I don't find the perfect lyrics or the perfect memorial items or the most appropriate dragonfly figurines.  Sometimes they're there, sometimes not. More often not.

I feel dead inside.  Even as I pour my heart out my words seem empty and meaningless.  I don't know if it's my self-defense - my body and brain shutting off just enough to get through the days - or if I really have reached that point where I can't feel anything.  Even now when I cry I can't let it go too long.  I thought it was because I was worried I wouldn't be able to stop.  Now it just seems like I've felt so much there's nothing left.  Nothing worse to feel, and nothing better.

I don't want to be this terrified introverted martyr I seem to become.  I want to be the bold, vivacious person I think my husband saw the first time we met.  I want to be the outgoing, supportive friend, the sassy and energetic wife, the stern but compassionate mother.  And I don't feel any of that.  I don't feel, except for the constant ache like my chest is caving in and my womb is still screaming.  And even that, I feel in silence.

Groundhog Day - stuck on repeat

I think he’s finally starting to get it.  It’s only taken me nearly breaking my hand for it to happen.

Saturday, the avoidance finally came to a head.  I was tired of tiptoeing around my closest friends and family.  Tired of the looks I get, whether it’s pity or fear or something else.  Pissed off that on top of losing my sweet daughter, I seem to have lost myself – my friends, my identity, my goals and aspirations. 

I flat out told him – I don’t want to be here anymore.  I think of killing myself all the time.  I would rather not exist than feel this way, because even the few good things I can grasp at don’t outweigh all the negativity that surrounds my thoughts.  It’s one of the only constant streams of consciousness running through my head all day – if I do this, will everything just stop?  Will I not care anymore?  Will anyone? 

He’s right – I won’t do it because of Parker.  Because I don’t want to put him through any more pain, and he’s been through so much already.  Because if I did Matt would never see him again, and he claims he’d be lost and sad without me.  But it’s not for me.  I still haven’t found a reason for me to stay. 

We talked sitting on the front steps – well, Matt talked and every once in a while I muttered something about how pointless everything was/is and how there’s no reason to go on.  He kept telling me “you have so much love to give, you care so much about Parker and me.”  I had to confess that the reason I’m so lost is that everyone else always came first – I’ve never put my needs or wants ahead of anything or anyone.  This is on the heels of my turning down what could have been a great job because it would strap us financially.  Is it the responsible, adult thing to do?  Yes.  Does it feel like another knife in the pincushion that has become my deflated heart, of course.  Its another thing I don’t get to have because other people come first.  It’s why when asked what I really want I have no answer.  I have no purpose, no drive, no motivation, no goals.  I’m not trying to play MarySue the Martyr, but I’ve wrapped myself up so much in other people’s needs and wants and sensibilities that I’ve lost sight of my own, and my identity.  I don’t know who I am or what I want or if I even have any desires.  Sometimes I think they’re all fabricated and reflect only others dreams for me.

He took a step back and looked at me funny.  “This is how you feel all the time, isn’t it?”  I let my tears answer.  He said I had so much love, so much I wanted to do for Coraline, and that’s why I’m so lost now.  It has nowhere to go.  I would have given everything for her, and that chance was taken from me, and now I’m just wandering.