“But when we miscarry, and little ‘evidence’ is available to support a life existed, the support disappears—leaving the mother grieving and treated as neurotic for mourning the very same ‘baby’ who’d been exuberantly cheered for all over Facebook just an hour before.”
This post from Still Standing punched me right in the heart!
I know loss isn’t fun, I get that. I’m not always happy. I don’t always feel things the way people who haven’t had their world crushed, multiple times, mind you, act. It isn’t happy. It isn’t polite dinner conversation. I’ve lost a dear friendship, too. Loss leads to loss, it seems. I don’t blame anyone, but it makes me so sad. It hurts in a different way, but almost as badly. It is, in fact, one of the worst things in the word. Being broken sucks. It is like being consumed by something so like the Nothing from The Neverending Story. Not being able to fill the kind of emptiness that just grows deeper and blacker all the time is the most urgently painful thing I’ve ever felt.
I know I’m not that fun all the time. I wish I was more fun, too.
Believe me. I want to be.
I want to BE happy.
I want to BE a Mama.
I want to BE able to make my husband a Daddy.
I want to BE the kind of friend that doesn’t cry when she finds out you are pregnant.
I want to BE in love with myself and not hate all the parts of me that don’t know their effing job.
I want to BE.
It’s one of the many other things that were lost along with those tiny heartbeats that don’t mean as much to you. The ones that leave me empty and broken.