Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Three years later. A letter to myself. ::trigger warning: miscarriage::

It seems that the only time I visit this blog anymore is to commemorate this difficult time. I'm not sure why, maybe it's because I don't want to burden my friends with what I'm experiencing. Maybe it's because I want to process the emotions, and this place had always been where I do that. Maybe it's because I want a permanent place to house these thoughts unlike facebook posts that are here and gone.

So, it's been three years since our miscarriage. The weekend was so busy that I really didn't get a chance to grieve. So I'm taking the time now. As busy as Friday was, I kept thinking that I wish I could go back and talk to my myself that day. So that's what I'm going to do.

Dear 2013 me,

Before I go any further, I want you to know that it gets better. I know you feel like you can hardly catch your breath and you're running in a million directions at once to try and keep the darkness at bay. I know you think it will always be this dark, that you'll never smile or laugh again... but I can tell you it will get better.

How are you (I) doing today?  I'm ok. Better than you are doing right now. I can laugh and dance and smile and enjoy the simple things in life. I can go days, weeks or even months without crying. I'm weathering this year much better than I did last year. I'm not going in a million directions trying to crowd out the pain. I actually put the date in my calendar, repeating every year. For a while I told myself that it didn't matter and I didn't need to remember the exact date. But as the weeks and days approached I found myself getting more and more anxious. Like what happens if it sneaks up on me and I'm not prepared. Or what if I miss it! I kept looking and relooking at the 2013 calendar to remember the date. So finally I just put it into my calendar. Surprisingly that seemed to relieve some stress. Knowing always seems to be better than not knowing.

I still remember the drowning feeling you are experiencing. The feeling that you can't catch your breath, like there's a rock on your chest. That will pass. You'll be able to walk by the maternity section at a store and not feel like you got the wind knocked out of you. You'll stop resenting every person you meet who is pregnant.

It will get better.

But........... you'll never be the same.        

And that's ok.

You have more compassion, more grace, more understanding for other people. You're a kinder person than you were before. You'll feel a slight twinge of sadness anytime a friend tells you they are pregnant. But it won't feel like you got punched in the gut anymore. You'll be able to smile and hug them and be genuinely happy for them. You'll be able to hold new babies without crying. In fact you'll come to love it and be known as the one who calls first dibs anytime there's a baby to be held. And your friends will let you because they know how it helps you.

Your friends will know that this time of the year is hard and will both check in with you and understand if you don't get back to them.

I know you feel like you're drowning, like the darkness is going to overtake you. I know you can't let yourself feel the pain for fear that it will crush you. Trust me, it won't. It will get better. You will smile again and laugh and dance but you'll never be the same, and that's ok.

2016 me

Fly free little one. Fly free.

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