" Is it in you now, to barely hear the truth that you have spoken? Twisted up by knaves,to make a trap for fools? Is it in you now, to watch the things you gave your life to broken? And stoop and build them up with worn out tools." -If by Rudyard Kipling
With the exception of dropping Emma off at preschool and mundane errands, last night was the first time I ventured outside since the miscarriage. Leaving my home and facing people has been a fear of mine. The anxiety surrounding social events is frightening.
Perhaps this anxiety stems from a fear that those who know me best will see the ugliness in my heart. Maybe they'll see me for who I am: bitter, devastated, and grieving. I am afraid of my loss. I am afraid to recognize I failed to carry this baby to term. What does this say about me? What does this imply about my mothering abilities? Is my body broken and worthless?
I tentatively attended a small gathering consisting of my core group of friends. My hesitation did not derive from lack of trust. It surrounds many other issues, such as grieving and feeling inadequate. Upon arriving, however, the circle of women embraced me with a kind warmth, their faces portraying genuine support and care. The anxiety and fear melted away; it dissipated into the floor boards, and I knew I made the right decision.
The hostess was lovely! She prepared margaritas, mojitos, and a variety of Mexican cuisine. The fried plantains were delicious, and I certainly appreciated the strong cocktails. One of my girlfriends commented that the margaritas were "sippers". I agree: without sipping, clothes could have possibly come off (and believe me: we are not those type of mommies).
Throughout the evening, the conversation and drinks flowed. The topics ranged from light to truly intimate, and at times I felt my chest tightening at the honesty. Sometimes we assume we know everything about our friends. We are certain of their depth and persona, when in reality, we do not have the keys to their heart and an uninterrupted view of their past. Things were said that changed the way I viewed everyone. The changes, however, are positive. What strength these women have! What sacrifices and love they have given. Their life experiences and wisdom are truly moving.
Everyone carries pain. Everyone has scars. We all must grow and change, developing into the people we are destined to be.
Hearing the stories and experiences my friends offered gave me a new perspective. In this current moment, I am stuck. Quicksand engulfs me, and I am unsure how to move forward. Imagine you're traveling in the wilderness. Oh, no! Suddenly you fall victim to quicksand. If you struggle, you sink further, doomed to a heinous muddy death. But if you relax, breathe deeply, and do not panic, your likelihood of survival increases. Is this what I need to do? Must I stop struggling against my grief? Must I take one breath at a time, focusing on the moment and not on the distant future?
I want to change. I want to stop worrying about next week, next year, or the ultimate outcome. I'm filling myself with doubt and feelings of inadequacies because I cannot possibly see myself as a future productive member of society. I am focusing on who I am now; I'm unable to see who I could be, how I could grow, because of this loss.
This new perspective, however, is already taking root. My outlook is becoming less fuzzy. I'm seeing the tiniest hint of color instead of grey hues. I am beginning to connect that the struggles and pain I feel now, the uncertainty, will pass. It's part of my design and will mold me into the person I will be 5, 10, or 15 years from now. These amazing, wise friends of mine became that way through their own scars and periods of doubt and uncertainty.
As I write, I fondly look at Emma. Clad in PJ's, her ponytail is high upon her head. She's absolutely beautiful! Her spirit is endearing and purposeful. When did she get so big? When this did this accidentally hilarious sense of humor develop? Emma is articulate and full of joy! It's like I'm seeing this for the first time. She embodies happiness and innocence.
I want to be present for these moments. I don't want to be stuck in a pit of quicksand, paralyzed. I can't live like this.
Healing and change is a long process, at least for me. It's going to take time. Many thanks to last night's company. Thank you for your support and grace. Thanks for being there. Thank you for your kindness and lack of judgment.
Baby steps. I have to remember it's all about the baby steps. And yet I can't help but feel ever so hopeful.
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