Know My Pain

June 28, 2020: A Letter to Blake

Grief

Nights are the hardest.
Seeing my shadow when I don't expect it is hard.
Having your dad squeeze my hand in support when we both forget about the bruises from the needles.
Having the bed be wet from breast milk is both comforting and a torture.

I had to pump. It was the one decision that I myself made and not that was made for me.

When I didn't pump it felt like i was ignoring my baby and i couldn't..

I couldn't handle the sympathy and pity in the hospital. I couldnt handle the reality. While I didn't sleep in the hospital, I also barely cried. I became a robot. Kind of a manic one. At one point nurse Jerri looked at me with concern and said "are you sure.." before breaking herself off. "Are you sure you're okay?" Is what was going to come out of her mouth. Because I kept making jokes. Because I had separated from myself and our situation so completely.

On an average day, I battle depression and anxiety almost constantly. If I don't get out of the house enough, if I haven't showered lately, if we don't stick to a routine, all of these things are triggers for my mental health.
And then we were in a pandemic. And then I lost my child. And had surgery. And now I can't even walk around the neighborhood without being in massive pain. Now depression rushes up and swallows me without any warning. Now I have panic attacks daily. When my mom leaves to go to the lake. When James leaves to run an errand. When Blake trips and falls. When my uterus starts to cramp, or my stitches start to ache. All of these things lead down rabbit holes of sheer panic.

It's hard to talk about grief. Because people want to put grief into words. They want to comfort you with their condolences. But grief can not be put into words. Grief is too big and too complex to just be said. It is too fragile.
You cannot just say, "I am heartbroken", "What if it's my fault", "I feel so full of rage". Because these sentences are all true and these feelings are all real and rage and relief and panic and terror and pain and hurt and fear all collide together and they create something larger than anything verbal. It is a visceral feeling. It is a wave smashing you into the sea. It is being stuck in a burning building. It is injustice and unfairness. It is pain.

So you don't say anything. And you don't want people to say anything to you. Because you do not want to tame what it is that you're experiencing. You do not want to belittle the loss.

You want to scream her name and tattoo it on your face and tell the world that this is what life has taken from you. But you also want to hold her close and protect her spirit and make sure the world can do no more damage.

There will be a lot of things that you grieve in life. Hopefully not for awhile, but my first friend died when I was 19. My cousin died from mental health problems. My very good friend and high school neighbor fell off a balcony in Vegas. My grandma died. Both of my brother's best friends died from overdosing. All of these things happened before I was 21. I became almost hardened to grief for awhile. I had to shut myself off before it took me down.

And then Remi got hit by a car.

I thing that I absolutely hate about grief is how people try to console you. When Remi got hit by a car, a person in my life told me that maybe I had to lose him to have your dad. Because I had just met him. And I get what he was saying. That I lost something but I also had just found something. And I know that he meant to be comforting. But that sentence haunted me for years. When you were born early and i was so angry about being forced into a c-section, people would say, "but at least she's here now, At least she's safe". And i get what they're saying. Like holy shit do I get it. But you were never NOT safe inside of me.
And when Fiadh died. Man that sentence is still hard to write. When Fiadh died, we found out that she would have been born with genetic defects. Honestly I can't even tell you what that really means because I was in too much shock to even ask questions. But people said to me how hard that life would have been. How maybe it was easier, for her and for us both, that she had died. AND I GET IT OKAY. I understand how that came from a place of love but Jesus, what a punch to the gut. LIFE is hard. All of it. And I would 1000% would have rather her BE HERE, now, with whatever complications life brought, than to feel this pain.

But here is the thing. When I'm alone? I say these things to myself. And they bring me comfort. How fucked is that.