Five Months Post Loss Check-in

Being actively creative is fairly inconvenient. I get overwhelmed a lot. And when there is a piece of writing tickling my brain I find it hard to focus on anything else. Yet I usually need everything else to be in some semblance of order to actually write it out coherently. Not writing the thing becomes another thing to add to my list of things not getting done while I’m not writing the thing. A vicious cycle that I imagine would not be a problem if I didn’t have this damned compulsion to over-share.

I worry that I’m self-indulgent when I’m telling my stories. That I’m not saying much of real value to my readers, that I’m basically just using my blog as free therapy most of the time. That no one really gives a fuck. Add self-indulgent to the list of reasons I’m not writing the thing. Check.

I vent my frustrations to my writing friends and am urged to just write it, already. Without being so guarded. Without trying to sound and look and be perfect. Without trying to please “you”, whoever “you” are.

Let my authentic voice come out.

So here goes.

I’m still mourning the lost pregnancy in the fall. I feel like I’m not supposed to talk about it anymore. Like I should be over it. But still, I grieve.

I have difficulty letting go.

I’ve been saving things for the possibility of baby number three for years. From giant maternity clothes to the tiniest sleepers imaginable, I’ve been in the habit of bagging and boxing and putting aside these things for later use since I was pregnant with my daughter in 2011. 4 years.

And it took about 5 months for me to start, but for the last week or so I’ve been going through it all and feeling all the things and working on letting go. I feel haunted by these things hiding in the corners of my home and there is no longer a reason to hang on to them. I’ve been practicing saying that out loud. Working on letting it linger in my mouth and in my mind and coming to terms with it.

Our family is complete. My husband’s vasectomy’s effectiveness is mere weeks away from being confirmed. I will not house another human being in my body. It is bittersweet.

The toughest part continues to be when my daughter brings up her baby sister that went to the sky and tells me how much she loves and misses her. We cry together sometimes. I still struggle with the guilt of putting her little heart through this pain. And it rips my heart in two every time she brings it up.

Another thing I have been struggling with lately is the relief I sometimes feel that I’m not pregnant right now, and the guilt that follows that realization. I would be heading into my last month this week. I would be giant, and uncomfortable, and full of heartburn and probably gas. I would waddle. I would rest a lot. I wouldn’t be in the trenches with my kids exploring their worlds and I wouldn’t be nearly as much help to my husband as we try to sell our home. Last week when I caught a nasty bug at the same time as my oldest, I wouldn’t have been able to pop a DayQuil and move on with my day taking the best care possible of her. I wouldn’t even be close to hormonal regularity for a long time. I would be susceptible to PPD and my husband would be watching me closely, concerned. I definitely wouldn’t be squatting or deadlifting over 100lbs or pulling 30 with one side.

I’m hoping that when my “due date” finally passes next month I will finally be able to stop comparing where I am to where I thought I would be. I’m so happy to be heading to California for a retreat to focus a little light and love inward that weekend.

There brain. I said it. Can we move on now?

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