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.
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