That’s what everyone says. Except that now I should be in my second trimester, the honeymoon of being pregnant. And I’m not.
I am trying and sometimes angry that people expect too much from me. I am trying and saddened that I can’t expect more of myself. I feel I’ve failed some folks either talked to them too much about the miscarriage or not enough. And I want to shake my hands at the sky and scream that I’m doing the best I damn well can. But I don’t have the energy. And I can’t find the energy to explain much of anything at all. I walk through life right now covered in a wet, wool shroud.
I do fake it, and I think convincingly, for the Bean. Though being with her, being her mother is one of the few things that does give me any joy right now.
Too many hormones over the last year. 2 miscarriages since last July and one chemical pregnancy (ssh, only we knew and only for a few days). I wonder if I will ever feel like I used to: smart, funny, interesting, strong and somewhat beautiful. I wonder if I will look forward to the day with anticipation instead of trepidation. I wonder if I will ever write anything of consequence again.
I sometimes think that, for the most part, my life isn’t much. That I’m hollow but for the love I feel for J, the bean and the cats. All eaten away by sorrow, all consumed by the loss of the hope and surety of youth that so much is possible.
I can’t sleep or if I do, I wake up with my heart pounding. I have a small burst of energy that leaves me feeling more pointless than before.
I know, I KNOW, somewhere in me is the person that inspired a few to songs, others to hatred and still others to love. But where to find her?
