I want to run. I want to hide. I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside. Not only are these the lyrics to a great U2 song, they also capture our mindset right now. There’s this incredible urge to run away. To move. To start fresh and get the hell out of dodge. Away from life as we know it. We’ve thought about it. Given serious thought to it, actually. But in the end, we realize we can’t run because it isn’t like we can just take off the pain and sadness like a dirty shirt and leave them behind. I’ve written about feeling like this before in my Mother’s Day post. There is no running. No hiding. Just living in it. The pain. The hurt and the sadness.
This is something we discussed with our therapist this week. How the only way you can get through something of this magnitude is to sit with it. To feel it. To own it. That until you do, it’ll just stay with you and continue to build. But the thing is, I don’t want to do any of those things. I’ve done it. All of those things. And I don’t want to do it again. I don’t want to do any of this again. But at this point, it isn’t my choice.
Most days, the pain is unbearable. There is the feeling of that all-too-tight blanket that encompasses me to the point where I think I can’t breathe. And it comes out of nowhere. I can be fine (read: not crying) one moment, and in the next, hysterical. Sometimes there’s a trigger, but often it just is. This is not a place I want to live.
I don’t want to continue to see and feel the physical aftermaths. The continued bleeding. To be forced to take quick from the waist down showers. To see droplets of milk coming out of my breasts and smell the sour milk that remains. I don’t want to wear double sports bras 24/7 until the milk that came in for our babies who aren’t here goes away. Sure this part will soon pass, but for the time being, it is an awful daily reminder.
I wake each morning, and live for that brief nanosecond before the realization kicks in. But it always does, and WHAM does it hit. This is not how I want to start each day. And every night ends the same way. Just after Double A kisses me goodnight and I turn over to try and get some much-needed rest, I get only deep emptiness and tears instead. Every day. Every night. This is not living.
Our therapist promises us that we won’t always feel like this. That it will get better. That we won’t always be so sad. So hurt. She reminded us of where we were after loss #4, and how far we came. I told her I’m not so sure this time. It is hard to imagine that we’ll ever be able to recover from this one. And the truth is, I don’t know that we WILL ever recover fully. This is an experience that will always be with us and will always haunt us.
Right now, the wounds are fresh, and the reminders everywhere. From the reality of what happened, to the babies and pregnant women that seem to be coming out of the woodwork. At this point, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through one breath to the next. I just know that I have to keep breathing. I’d like to think that there is still some hope in me, but right now I can’t put my focus there. Because right now, I have to put all of my energy in surviving this life.