Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Right now, this minute

Right now, this minute the pain is too much.  I thought I was okay, but I'm not okay.  How is it ever okay?  Right now, this minute I wish I was dead.  I don't want to feel it anymore.  I don't want to feel the emotional scar, the hole where two of my kids are supposed to be.  I think my daughter would be fine without her dad.  I'm not that great of a mom, I killed her siblings.  I know she'd never understand though and I'd never do that to her.  I can't hurt all 3 of them.  No one reading this needs to worry that I'm going to do anything.  I'm only wishing, not doing.

I think about leaving my husband.  I think he hates me.  He says he loves me, but I know he's tired of looking at me and I'm never happy.  I don't think I'm ever going to be happy.  How can he stand me?  My body was never the instrument of life due to infertility, but now it's an instrument of death.

I hate my body.  I hate the fucking cramps.  My goddammed stupid body.  I hate it!  The body that would never work properly to give me children.  The body that destroyed and killed the most important things in it.  My body that gets sick.  I can't beat anything.  It's been cold sore after cold sore after cold sore.  I keep getting colds.  I have horrible cramps right now.  I'm still bleeding.  I still make milk.  I wish I could stab it, kick it, burn it, destroy it for what it's done to me, my family.

Right now, this minute I'm just trying to make it to the next.  I don't know how.  I don't know that it's even possible.  I keep hearing it will get better.  When?  When does it ever get better?  How can anything be better when they will never come back?

Kate had her 18 month appt today.  He says she's absolutely perfect, beautiful, and healthy.  Something worked once.  She is mine.  I couldn't create her, or keep her in the whole time, but with help I did it.  I love her.  She is everything that is beautiful and perfect.  I tried to buy her shirts.  Children's Place was having a sale.  There were 3 of them.  3 shirts that all had a sister theme.  She is a sister, not that it counts.

I hate life, I hate nature, I hate almost everything.

Right now, this minute I'm crying so hard and tears are streaming down my face.  I'm trying to drown myself in wine, but it's not working, it still hurts.

Right now, this minute I'm missing my babies.  Emily and Chase, I love you.  I'm sorry.

5 comments:

  1. I am so sorry to read this. I'm sorry for your losses. Praying you have a new revelation of the Lord's love for you. That He is FOR you and not against you. He is the one person who can bring you peace through all of this and trusting you see that He is good!

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  2. Hi Sweet Momma. I have been meaning to reach out to you. After 13 fertility treatments I got pregnant with triplets in July 2013. I lost one at 9 weeks and went on to have an amazing healthy sick-free pregnancy with boy girl twins. We had a huge gender reveal party. My water broke on my daughter randomly the next day. Long story short, I held her in for 1 more week and had to deliver her still at 18 weeks. Her brother, Jude's sack was still full of water and he didn't deliver. I stayed on bedrest and he stayed healthy and alive till 21 weeks. I got an infection and was forced into labor. My babies were 100% healthy, it was me that couldn't carry to term. This is a nasty road for anyone and having to do it x2 seems so cruel and unfair. At the time I had no other children. I came home to a sad and empty home. We all deal with grief differently but I'm one of the few that can taste what you tasted. I am so sorry. Please email me hollybenson10@yahoo.com when you get a chance. I would like to give you some resources that helped me make it through the day. You are a beautiful mom to 3, their big sister will always know their story. The pain is always there but I promise you will not feel this low/horrible the rest of your life. <3

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  3. I'm glad Holly reached out to you. Oh my sweet mama, I know your pain. I'll get you on FB so you can contact my quickly if you need to talk. I'm sorry you were feeling so incredibly pained. ; (

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  4. I'm glad Holly reached out to you. Oh my sweet mama, I know your pain. I'll get you on FB so you can contact my quickly if you need to talk. I'm sorry you were feeling so incredibly pained. ; (

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  5. I know I haven't been through the same thing but I wanted to comment on grief because I've been thinking/writing about it a lot recently. The things you keep hearing from people: you're right. As a society, we don't know how to cope with grief -- or more importantly, how to cope when others are experiencing it. It has a purpose. It sucks, it hurts like absolute hell, but it has a purpose. If I've learned nothing else over the years, it's that. I know people say it will get better, and that they have the best of intentions when they say that. But in my experience, that's the wrong word for it. In my experience, grief changes. It has been over six years since I lost my father, three and a half since I lost my first pregnancy, a little over one year since I lost the last pregnancy. I still think about all three losses every day. It still hurts every day. But it's different now than it was when it was fresh. None of those are anything like losing two babies at once, I realize that, and I'm not comparing. I'm just sharing my perspective on the torment of grief, and that I understand everything you're saying in this post. And honestly, I'm glad you're writing it and being honest about it. The more you express these feelings, even if they are scary for others to hear, the less chance they have of fermenting inside you and doing worse damage. You and I have talked a bit about our pasts and so you know what I've been through. You're welcome to share these scary thoughts with me any time and I will not judge you or panic or invalidate what you're saying. I have learned over the years that freaking out isn't an appropriate response to someone else's pain -- though that doesn't mean I'm always calm but I try to be. :) If I'm not at first, I try to remember what that deep, soul-crushing pain is like, and get in touch with empathy. My point is this: I'm not going to tell you it's going to get better, because I don't agree that's the way to put it. Maybe I'm a pedantic jerk, but it puts expectations that aren't realistic. And I'm not you, so I don't know what things is going to be like for you, or how it's going to shape you specifically. But I do know you, and I know that you are so amazing, much more than you realize. I know grief, as if it's a person -- we go way back. And the thing about grief is that it's keeping you close to what you lost. Letting go of it right now is not an option because it's not time to do that, yet. It's something you have to work through. You can't get air-lifted out of the swamp, you've just got to find your way through. But you can have friends there to look out for the dangers and help you navigate it. I know we all wish we could take away your pain, as if it's a tangible thing we could just lift off your shoulders like a cloak, but we can't. I can't. But I'm here to watch out for those gators in the swamp. I love you, A. You're a beautiful person and amazing friend. I'm so sorry this happened to you. But if I can convince you of anything, it's just that it did happen to you -- you didn't cause this. I know it's easier to blame ourselves because then there's a reason, something to point to, and someone to punish -- who easier to punish than ourselves? But at some point, when you're ready, you can let go of that blame because it's misdirected. It won't make any of this easier, but it will give you a chance to love and care for yourself, which is what you deserve. I'm sorry if I've gone on too long here -- or gone too far -- I've just been thinking about this for a long time. I've been thinking for a long time what I can do or say to help. And I still don't know. Sometimes all we have to give are words, and these are mine. Love you, friend.

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