hiding

I need to vent and I think this is probably the best place to do it.  I literally feel like I may explode from the pressure.  The pressure to perform, the pressure not to disappoint. The pressure to be a good friend, good daughter, good mom, to all my children, living, dead, blood and step.  I ask too much of myself.  Or perhaps others ask too much of me.  Or perhaps -both?

It is now three weeks until Holden's first birthday. What do I do?  Nothing will be adequate.  Nothing will be good enough.  It would be good enough if I could set him in his high chair with a smash cake on the tray wearing only a diaper and sit and watch, take pictures and laugh, as he takes his first bite of refined sugar.  That's all I want.  Why is it so much to ask?  Instead I am trying to figure out the perfect way to honor him.  Honor him?  He's just a baby.  He's just a little one year old boy.   Why put so much pressure on him that he needs to be honored?  Because he's not here.  He is nowhere.  He is everywhere.  He is in the ground and in my heart and in my daughters' tears.  He is in every breeze, harsh or mild, he is in every forget-me-not bloom waiting to burst forth from the ground.  And we shall see how much he is in his new little sister...

I miss him.  It's crushing, suffocating.  No one should have to live like this, without their child.

Sometimes I still deny that this is my life:
  The constant fear of having to either lie, and deny my son, or explain and get those sick, sympathetic looks and sudden subject changes.
   The empty placating comments, the ones that say, "I have no idea what to say so I will say something that makes myself feel better," without any real regard for my feelings or how their words can truly affect me.
   Always hoping that someone, anyone, who knows about him will bring him up so I can finally feel free to talk about him.  And knowing that so very rarely happens.
   The disappointment every time someone close to me says something hurtful without thinking, without acknowledging him, and I have to correct them.
   Putting on the mask, every morning and not being able to take it off for fear I may just finally lose my shit for good this time.
   Never being able to truly focus on the task at hand because I need to connect so badly with other people going through what I am because that somehow helps me feel connected to him.
   Wondering if I'll lose my job for said lack of focus, then realizing I don't care, then realizing I SHOULD care because I have to take care of the rest of my children.
   Always wondering how I can force myself to be a better mother to my living daughters because I can see my lack of interest or patience is hurting them so badly.
   Hating the pain that their brother's death has caused them, my oldest daughter mirroring all the anger I feel and knowing so little how to cope with those feelings inside herself.
   Wishing I had done things differently, but knowing I did the best I could, still oftentimes hating myself for those decisions I'd made.
   The rare outburst from Holden's Daddy where he just cries and cries and I can't do anything to take his pain away.
   The happy updates from friends and family about who's expecting and all I can think is, "I hope this baby doesn't die."
   Being annoyed with and jealous of those who are expecting because they don't know what it's like to live like this and their complaining of pregnancy discomforts and babies who don't sleep enough are really stabs through my chest, each and every one of them.
   And that is just a scratch on the surface...

I am pregnant now.  I am 36 weeks pregnant today.  Today is three weeks from Holden's first birthday.  Today, in this pregnancy is 2 weeks from when I found out in my pregnancy with him that he was gone.  Today is 4 weeks from my due date.

I have tried to find comfort, and I have previously, in online support groups. I just feel like Debbie Downer.  All the other ladies, despite their anxieties even, seem to be so hopeful.  They look on the bright side.  They see the best in people.

 I just want to hide.  I want to crawl in bed, pull the covers over my head and speak to no one until littlest sister is here, screaming and nursing and pooping and puking and keeping me up all night and... living.  If, when, maybe.  I hope.

naive

Why do I remain optimistic?  Why do I keep insisting to look on the bright side?  Why do I keep believing that good will somehow prevail and that someone in a position that matters will actually give a shit about these kids and what they are going through?

Lee's ex won the custody mediation.  Because her father is a retired state cop and is buddies with the first judge, he ruled that the case wasn't even a relocation because she moved before there was a custody order in place.  Too bad the law doesn't say that.  It's not ambiguous AT ALL.

It must be nice to be above the law and do whatever you want, continuing to hurt your children in so many ways, and just trip through life oblivious to anything but your own selfish desire to get revenge.  Who cares about the kids?  If their own mother doesn't, why should anyone else?  And the people who actually do, can't do a damned thing about it.

I am physically sick about this.  Sick.

This woman has had her four year old on 4 different psychiatric drugs in as many weeks, claiming that all of his "problems" are his father's fault.  Funny, when he was still here, the psychiatrist said he was a pretty normal four-year-old with some anxiety due to recent big changes in his life.  She wouldn't diagnose anything, she refused to peg him with ADHD, and she never even MENTIONED medication.  The boy has problems now because his mother ripped him from everything he's ever known and moved him 1600 miles from his father and siblings.  His little sister used to laugh and be goofy on Skype. Now she just whines and cries.  She's depressed.  At the age of 3.

I guess the whole point of this post is what the fuck is wrong with me?  Seriously.  Should I just give up?  I'm the one who was so optimistic about the end of my pregnancy, encouraging the other preggo mom's I knew when they would complain of being so uncomfortable.  "It's all worth it!"  "Soon we'll get to hold our babies." "I might be uncomfortable, but I'm more excited to look in my baby's eyes than to just 'get him out of me'!"  And for what?  A few hours with his corpse, while he quickly turned cold, and the marks of death spread over his precious little face, turning his skin blue and his lips black.  He never opened his eyes, so I never looked into them.

I suck at being pessimistic, but I may just have to get used to it.  If life doesn't quit sticking it in my back door.

Dear Fourth Grade Teacher,

     I am so glad that you are my daughter's teacher this year.  Just knowing that you also had a sibling who was stillborn, helps me feel like someone understands her.  I know she often feels as if no one truly does.  That just because we never brought her brother home from the hospital doesn't mean she never had a brother at all.
     People are dismissive of our losses.  They don't understand that a stillborn baby is still a baby.  He was our baby.  Mine and Meadow's, Lennon's, Lee's, Jenna's, Lee IV's, Bella's, Alex's.  He was ours and people's ignorance will not take him away.  But knowing people like you acknowledge him, acknowledge Meadow's loss,  helps heal us a little at a time.
     I, too, feel like Meadow is an old soul.  Speaking with you today made me realize even more how much like her mother that child is.  It's not that I think I am wonderful, but I know she is and every time I learn something about her that other people find wonderful, I feel good about myself.  Maybe I am not so bad after all.  :)  Meadow has such understanding of what it means to be compassionate.  I think a lot of people could learn a thing or two from my amazing daughter.
     Thank you again, for being the perfect person to teach my daughter, and lead her in one of the most difficult years of her little life.

Sincerely,

Meadow's Mom

PS I apologize for getting snot all over the place and blubbering onto your desk during what you probably thought would be a routine Parent-Teacher Conference.

Things I have Learned About Myself

...most of which I don't particularly like, but hey, it's me.  At least I know now, and I can work on them.

-I need approval and praise.
     Okay, maybe I don't NEED them, but I seek them.  I find that when I do something and I don't get recognition, I am much less likely to continue.  Such as my blog....  This is not a cry for readers or comments.  It is simply the truth.  This is why I have not been posting.  Now that I realize this about myself, I will try to post more often.  This is how I am trying to work on this thing about me.  I NEED to write for therapeutic reasons, for me, not for anyone else, and certainly not for approval or support.

-I hate being made to feel as if I am less intelligent than someone or less experienced, green.
     I've been this way since I was small.  Friends would be telling me something new that they learned and I would say, in an adorably exasperated tone (only adorable because I was seven years old), "I KNOW!"  Soon, my friends became exasperated with ME.  "You think you know EVERYTHING!"  Well, no, but at least all the stuff you know....
     I'm still this way, but I've learned to just pretend I don't already know when someone tells me something I do already know.  I suppose telling people things that we've learned makes us feel intelligent, important somehow.  However, there are times when I am not seeking the advice from someone and I am still burdened with the wisdom of others anyway.  This still drives me nuts.  I will handle things in my own way.  If I need advice on how to handle my own grief, something I OWN, I will come to you.  Trust me.

-Fear holds me back.
     Fear of what?  I don't always know.  I am starting to believe it is fear of failure.  I fear failing at everything because if something I do is not perfect in my eyes, I have failed.  If it's not good enough, it's not good AT ALL.  This brings me to my next thing I have learned about myself...

-I am a perfectionist.
     This and the one before directly tie into each other.  I need to start forcing myself to create, write, paint, draw, craft.  These things are all therapeutic for me.  And Lord knows, I NEED therapy.

Thanks for reading, the very few of you.  (I laugh at myself.)

words

I used to write every day.  Sometimes many times a day.  Then life got in the way.  Now death has gotten in the way.  And overwhelming circumstances.  And many things out of my control.  I have started a blog and neglected it for days, weeks, months at a time.  I now apologize to myself and promise to write here, when I can, and not to pressure myself.  I need to be more gentle with Nerissa.

Someday, the beautiful words will return to me.  I still have the beautiful thoughts at times.  I just can't seem to extricate them from my head.  For now, here are some more angry ones.  They are "inspired" by a woman who has said horrible things about and done horrible things to my family.

I will not allow myself to fall further into the depths with you.
My anger towards you, likens me to you the further I sink in.
I no longer accept myself in your oppressive skin.
You are an overbearing, manipulative cocoon, barbed from within.
To escape I must give in.
But I will not give in to you.
I will give in to my self.
To my soul.
For escape comes from within me.
I relinquish this hatred.
This sorrow.
This depression you think you had a hand in.
You do not win anymore.
I realize it has been my doing all along.
I can fight.
I can battle.
I can brawl.
But the war is within me.
You are no longer allowed.

living the dream

Or "Welcome to My Nightmare."

I still some days, when I hear that enchanting chirp that is my alarm, roll over, slap the snooze button, and hope I hear a cry.  Just a little whimper maybe?  Something.  Or maybe I will put my hand on my massively bulbous belly, feel those good strong kicks, and I will realize...

But it's not.  It's not just a nasty, horrendous, cruel, horror-show-that-is-my-new-life, big, fat, fucking dream.  And I hate it.

There are parts of my life that I love.  A few of them in fact.  Meadow, Lennon, Lee.  Being Holden's mommy too.  It just wasn't enough.  It will never be enough.  I didn't get enough time.  Sure, I'll always be his mommy, but I want to be the kind of mommy who gets to cuddle, and feed, kiss booboos, help with homework, straighten ties, and the countless other things I will never get to do for him.  I don't have a little boy.  I WANT my little boy.

Sometimes it feels like Holden's life was just a dream.  A sweet, beautiful, I-never-want-to-wake-up-again, kind of dream.  I'm glad it's not.  Because at least I had that.  And it was real.  Holden was real.  Holden is real.  And he is loved.

blocked

I started this blog with every intention of posting nearly every day.  I started it KNOWING that's what I would do.  I've always enjoyed writing and I've always found it therapeutic.  I haven't written now for years, since I had my first child nine years ago.  I don't know what made me think I could just jump back into it and the words would just flow.  Maybe the fact that I have a lot to say?  But the words don't come.  They are trapped inside my head, fighting over each other to get out.

I've been told that my writing has promise.  My teachers and professors loved it.  Now I read it and I sound stupid to my own ears.  I sound sad and pathetic.  I suppose I am.  I suppose that's what my life has become.  Of course there are wonderful parts of my life.  Parts that are bright, glimmering halos over the sadness that weighs on me nearly every moment of every day.  But the blackness of this despair I feel is what really colors my reality.

I spoke with my therapist, Stu.  (I only mention his name because I love saying it inside or outside my head. It has such a fun sound to it.)  Stu says I should try some stream of consciousness type writing.  He said this because I told him I have a million thoughts running through my head, some of them quite beautiful, but when I try to put them on paper... well it just doesn't happen.  I have about six posts that I have started on here and never finished.  In fact, every single one of them is two or three sentences long and then it just stops.   I find myself avoiding this blog because I know I'll get here and lock up.

But here I am today.  Saying a whole lot of nothing.

I do know this.  I miss my boy.  I miss Holden.