Monday, October 15, 2012

I hate being here.

I lay in bed, feeling myself sinking deep within the mattress. I've never been good at visualization, but I find myself being able to do it tonight. I can see roots growing from body, going deep into this mattress, never to be pulled away again. 

I recognize I'm going back into a depressive state. I've dealt with these moods an emotions since childhood. Sometimes now I wonder if maybe, just maybe, my psyche knew it was in for a hell of a ride one day so it might as well start being sad at 5 years old, give or take. 

I can't decide if the burning in my chest is heartburn or simply pain that must bubble up somewhere.   I try to convince myself to take deep breaths, relax my jaw...but it's not working. 

Today I dealt with comments relating to babies dying. Jokes, they are called. Innocent comments about how she didn't kills hers when she was pregnant. His joke about stabbing babies. How do I find these situations?  Were they always there and I just never noticed, never cared?  Is this now my hard lesson for never paying attention before?

I sat there looking. Wanting to let out a completely psychopathic laugh and say "I have a dead baby!  Mine is real!" and just freak everyone the fuck out with my laughing and candor. I'm a dead baby mom, we are all crazy, you know. We are over sensitive. Not mothers. And we hate the world, pregnant women, & children. That's how we roll. 

The only thing that's kept me from hitting someone while cussing them or allowed me to refrain from just throwing myself into the floor wailing is the knowledge of what's socially acceptable. But trust me, it's hard. 

I'm finding myself consumed by Joel as of late. Really ironic timing since I'd decided weeks ago that I need to let some of it go. Stop hating myself. Stop hating the situation. Stop being so pissed about it. It was time. 

But that was then. This is now. 

Now I'm on the verge of tears constantly.  I fear trying to tell someone if they ask because I know I'll become hysterical before I can even get his name out.  I find myself wanting to mention the situation constantly. 

"Thanks for the Starbucks. Too bad my dead baby never got the chance to grow up and have this bitter, overpriced yet somehow addictive coffee."

"I'm good, thank you for asking!  My baby is in an urn. It's bronze. And a cube. You can run my card as credit if you don't mind."

"I'd like 2 chicken nugget happy meals for boys with chocolate milk.  I'd be getting 3, but my 2nd son died. I'd also like a large fry. And awkward stares."

That's basically how my day would go if possible. 

I find myself angry at my newest baby because he was early and now shares Joel's birth month. He totally stole Joel's birthstone so even my dead baby jewelry people will just assume its related to my new May baby.  While I'm happy he's alive, I'm also incredibly angry. He was saved. So after finally coming to terms that maybe, just maybe, Joel died and it couldn't have been prevented, he's saved in time and is thriving. Why couldn't my other baby be saved so the entire path of my life didn't have to change?  

Hi, I'm your 1 in 4 of moms whose baby died. No, I didn't lose him. I know exactly where he's at. It's a bronze cube hidden in our bedroom on a corner shelf I ordered while breast feeding Blair in the hospital as a newborn.  

Maybe it's the baby aspect.  Maybe babies aren't real people? I sure don't hear a lot of jokes about killing 5 year olds.  Maybe I need to stop embracing the fact that my baby died & just go with kid. 

My kid died. Why the fuck was I handed this deal?  

Nope. Didn't make it any better. 

Stop. Sucking. People. 

<3 died.="died." div="div" i="i" joel.="joel." m="m" nbsp="nbsp" sorry="sorry" you="you">


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