Six months

I never thought I'd say those words.  It has been six months since my beautiful daughter was born silent.  I should have a smiling, wiggling, six-month old baby girl bouncing on my hip, not a world full of shattered memories and broken hearts.  I should be spending sleepless nights with her sleeping on my chest instead of browsing imgur just to make the time pass and force myself asleep.  I should be fetching bottles of formula or breastmilk, not making myself a drink to take the edge off.

People keep telling me I'm strong.  They keep saying they couldn't handle it, or that they don't know how I am.  I'm not.  I've pushed it aside.

I've kept myself occupied and over-stimulated.  Forced all my free time into meetings and planning and projects.  Right now I'm typing while at work, my hands still covered in paint from my kitchen cabinets last night.  Tonight after work I'm meeting my partner to discuss our newly formed business, and tomorrow brings a film project.  Saturday is dinner with friends.  I can't sit still.  If I sit still too long, the horrible silence takes over and I mourn again.  I mourn her bitterly and I'm worried if I give in and let myself, I'll never stop again.

It feels so surreal that our lives have "moved on" while hers never began.  I feel guilty, still, for continuing and in essence thriving when she never took a breath. 

They say drowning victims don't always look like their drowning - even lifeguards have been known to miss it. This is what drowning looks like. It looks like I'm swimming along, perfectly adjusted and not in any danger or pain.  Inside I'm already gone.