I'm late hoping on this project, but better late than never right?
So, Audrey's birth and death days are approaching. As expected, the sorrow creeps in. I've become very good at compartmentalizing the grief. It no longer swallows me up for hours or days at a time. It comes in moments. Like when I hear a song in the car, I completely lose it for 5 minutes then I pull it together and walk in to meet friends with a smile on my face. And that smile is genuine, not forced. Seems strange that I can just wrap it up like that now. It comes when I look at my rainbow in awe of all that she is becoming, then I think of who Audrey might be if she were here. Those are the moments that happen most, just being a mom to her little sister. Sometimes I imagine them together, Audrey with her dark brown hair and Naomi with her red, playing together in the room they would have shared, that is currently ours. How we would move into the smaller room and give the girls ours. How we would arrange the beds, the toys ect. For months I said all this to myself as if it is how it will be if we have another living girl. One day I realized it's really because I'm trying to fit Audrey into our house. I feel crazy sometimes.
She is not here.
I also feel less self-conscious. I remember in those first days I felt like everyone knew there was something wrong with me, like I was the only women in the world who failed in the worst way. And if they didn't know part of me didn't want them to find out because I can't stand pity. I just wanted to be 'normal' again. Another part of me was desperate to tell them why I was so effed up.
I still can't think straight though. I know that comes with being a mom, but it's certainly hard not to be all over the place when someone says something unassuming like " Is this your first?" or "Is she your only child?" and my thoughts fly to the sky. Then, I lose my keys, forget to call someone back, can't remember where I am supposed to go next- that's right, to the store. Oh, I forgot my grocery list, all because someone interrupted my day with a simple question. Now, I may not be crying about it but my brain just flips a switch and I get lost sometimes (mentally). I no longer sit with the grief, I'm busy with it- maybe that's worse cause I do some really stupid stuff and say some really stupid things.
I'm so different now. It's hard to find words.
The pain has subsided.
I love better.
I can't write though- as you can tell. I've disappeared. I don't do happy writing. Pain inspires the writer in me. I just don't need this space like I used to. That makes me a little sad because I don't want to let go of it either. I've been torn about it for months.There are days though that I wish I felt as comfortable as I once did in expressing myself here. I think in terms of the blog post, but can't make it happen when I sit down at the computer.Angie has stated it perfectly:"I have read about this happening to other people. I remember from my early days reading about it with people years out. When their real life peeps into their online diary, and then have things held against them. They went private or password protected or went anonymous with a new blog name. I don't know how to deal with it, because I never thought I would care or not be able to just ask someone if they were reading my blog. I don't want to ask now and draw attention to my blog, and on the other hand, it feels like a violation if someone is reading about my emotions on a day to day basis. And that is just it. In the beginning, I didn't care if people read because I knew that grief was trumping everything. Now that people expect me to be normal again, I can't quite figure out why I ever thought telling anyone about my blog was like a good idea. And yet, I have come to rely on this space. So, that is the awkward grief place I am at now. I don't mind if people in my day to day life comment, or let me know they are reading, it is the awkward place of me not knowing what everyone knows. If they read here, they know way more about me and my weird hiccups in life than I know about theirs. It feel unsafe sometimes. It makes it sound like I dwell in grief, but this is the place I process that part of my life. And it is so important, I can't give it up. Blogging is strange, because the temporary feelings become permanent, and little dalliances with the annoying take on the gravitas of epic angers. Nothing is ever permanent with emotions. Nothing, except people can pull up a specific blog post and say, "But you feel like this."
Plus, I've been up to my neck in the everyday. Sometimes it's the keeping busy that keeps the grief at bay. This last week I've laid awake many nights, it's in the silence that I find what's really in my heart, the longing for my two daughters. 15 months apart.
She's a little piece of heaven that came to call. I am full of joy when I think of the day our whole family can be together. That was much harder to do when the grief was new.