Things can only go up from here

When I first started this blog, I wrote almost daily. I poured my heart into this; every ounce of pain I felt is here. Every moment full of doubt is recorded. I am shocked by the intimacy I shared with strangers. I cannot read the letter to baby Borchgrevink without sobbing. Laying in my bed, I sound like a wounded animal as I read the hopes and dreams I had for that pregnancy. Eventually Emma will come into my room and seeing the sadness in her face will bring me back to reality.

I have not been neglecting the blog. I try to write. I sit down, full of words, and all that comes forth is pain, bitterness, sadness, grief, contempt. I'm like a record stuck on repeat. I'm sick of being THAT person, that angry asshole person who is full of venom. I'm sick of being full of sadness. I'm exhausted from feeling like I did something wrong. Instead of writing, I have been brooding. I've taken a backseat in hopes that the clouds will part and some inspiring wisdom will come forth. Like in a movie. A really bad teen flick or something you'd see at Jesus Camp. Anything at all! 

If I have learned anything from this experience, anything at all, it is that things change in an instant. You never know what is going to happen, and you can do everything in your power to ensure the outcome you want, but there is nothing - absolutely nothing - to guarantee things will work out as planned.  It's sort of funny. Not funny in a "did you see the latest Tosh.0," but funny in a life-likes-to-throw-a-monkey-wrench in things...just to mess with you sort of funny. The that-girl-wore-the-exact-custom-made-dress-to-prom as me funny. The magical moments of life, eh?

Things can only go up from here. In the beginning, grief was a bitch. It was sloppy and fumbling; I cried a lot, and ignored everything around me. I floated to the next mark, bobbing along, sobbing for a huge part of my heart swept away. I neglected myself and had an extremely hard time accepting that the pregnancy was not meant to be.

I had nightmares about mother nature; I dreamed she was some sick mother fucker - an effing Grim Reaper who in the midst of the night would take fetuses from women. No lies! And 3 a.m. and I became best friends. I couldn't sleep; nothing helped - including Ambien. I was hollow and a former shell of the girl full of hopes and dreams.

But slowly, things started to fall back into place. Things became more numb, and were replaced by the need to simply cope - to move forward, to forge onward because I was fucking everything up in my life. I'm accepting what happened. I'm finding little moments of joy, and appreciating sappy stuff like nice weather and organic beef (because organic beef effing owns - so worth the money).

Things change, though. Just because the sadness is not as harsh, it's still there. I believe it'll always be there. I will always wonder what would have been; what baby Borchgrevink would have brought to our lives.

I don't know what else there is to do - it is what it is.

I cannot think about babies or pregnancy; I cannot think about getting knocked up again. Instead, I think about the here and now - the what I have, and not what I am missing. This is most helpful. This is what gets me through the rough moments when I hold a baby or when I walk past the baby aisle in Target. This is how I don't have a panic attack and hissy fit because things did not go as planned.

I keep expecting to wake up and things to be normal again. I just assume everything will go away. I'm just fooling myself. This is the new normal: something will always be missing. This is what I now struggle with. It's not the burning sadness, but the idea that despite the pain that I went through - things will never be fully healed. It just...sucks. 

That's the truth.

But it wouldn't be fair to exclude the moments that are beautiful. Here are some from this afternoon in which the hubster and I took Emma to the park.