I come here to blog, but I can't find the words.
Instead I look at the little flashing thing that is practically screaming, "type, lady!" while I listen to Hoarders in the background, with the sound of the fish tank filter running (yes, we now have a fish tank). We have a lovely Christmas tree, lit up & cheerful.
But be writing tonight doesn't work out. Because if I did, I'd be writing just like when I go through the other motions of life. When I talk to people. When I go shopping. When I talk to family. When I go to the post office. When the collection agency calls about their now $187 that I refuse to pay for "care" rendered to us while I was pregnant with Joel. When people ask how I am, what's going on, or anything else. I usually answer "fine." Sometimes I say I'm tired, once I said I was sick. But the truth is this.
My kid died.
But that kinda kills the "how are you?" I then ask. I'm actually not thinking of it as a snarky comment, but that really sums up how I feel.
I wonder if people, strangers, can tell something tragic happened to me.
I wonder if those who know look at me & think about it when I'm talking to them.
I wonder if they are scared to mention it. Or if they are scared that I'll mention it.
I wonder that if I died, would people sit around & make small talk, never mentioning anything surrounding my existence?
There are only a handful of people around me in my life that acknowledge him. That actually say or write his name. I'm thankful for those people. I don't think it'd bother me so much still if people ever did before. I don't expect people to talk about my dead baby every time they see me for the rest of my life, but jeesh. Once he was...I was going to say when, but the truth is that no one ever said his name. He didn't have a name until a couple weeks before he died. And then, no one cared. He was then the dead baby I was to deliver. He was always just a thing. I hate the people who make me feel like that.
Holy fuck, I hate the holidays.
How am I? I'm a dead baby mom, that's how I am.
I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone.
Yep, I can even steal quotes from prison movies to remind me of my dead baby. I'm that talented. Gold star to anyone who knows it (without google, of course).