I had to do password recovery to get into here. Not only that, but I became so confused because Google seems bound and determined to link up each of my emails. (of which, I only have 2, but one is strictly for the use of google docs.)
I have wanted to come back and write here many, many times, but I truly just don't know how to make time for it. I am homeschooling my lovely 6 (!!) year old daughter. Having your child with you 24/7 gives new meaning to phrase "time management". Meanwhile, I read homeschooling blogs with awe, "how do they do this?" I wonder. But I digress.
Shortly after I wrote my last post, I had a marriage blow up. I want to say it was nothing serious, but if I am honest, it was serious to me. Since then, we have tried to improve on our relationship, which, feels more time consuming than I think it should be, at times. It's better. But, I feel the pull of the negative feelings at times, and somehow, I always make a circle back into grief.
Pretty much anything that makes me sad, makes me circle those feelings all over again. I am shocked how simplistic sadness is. Sadness just feels like sadness.
I made a new friend. I was so excited, because making new friends is not easy as an adult. Or at least, not easy for me. Maybe even more difficult since losing ~M~. We had a small disagreement recently, and I can feel that some wind shifted and it isn't the same between us at this moment. Today, I was thinking over the choices of running and hiding and letting her come to me, or being more adult, and just directly asking her if things were going to be okay with us.
It made me feel sad again. This is the kind of thing that just makes me so angry at grief. Why must it punctuate everything? When I am sad, I can't only get sad about the current thing, but I must drift into thoughts and feelings of losing babies, not having more babies, and wondering if I am to fault for my marriage and friendship troubles because, something has been terribly wrong with me since December 2005?
When I type this out, I can see how almost ridiculous it is, how whiny and self pitying. I cannot lie though, it it true. This is the road trip my brain makes when things are not going well, when sadness makes my heart heavy. Most of us in this boat have a very clearly defined before/after dynamic in our heads and mine includes a lack a trust in myself and my feelings. After ~M~ died, I lost my footing. I wish I could say 8 years later I regained it, but I can't. I feel as though I dug my heels in on a rock only to find the rock I chose was wobbly and imbalanced.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Saturday, August 4, 2012
And just when you think you turned a corner....
I was ready. Ready to to have the conversation with Mr. G about making our birth control permanent. It took a awhile to get here. I went on the pill after IZ died, even though I hate it, partially because I knew I could not handle another pregnancy, but also because my period had become hell on earth since I lost him and I was hoping the pill would help regulate it. At that time, I wasn't ready to make it permanent. I was still hurting and harbored perhaps wistful thoughts of....Maybe....but after a little over a year on the pill, hating it just as much as in my early twenties, and working on making peace with having one living child, I was ready. I have quit the pill. And it's great. Except Mr. g doesn't want to go permanent. Okay, slight snag, now I am thinking about me going permanent. As I think it over, I start thinking I should be the one anyway. After all, I'm the one who "can't" have living kids very easily. And, though it took lots and lots of time to get here, I really believe I am happy with my family, and dare I say? even glad I have only one kid.
Except, as I am researching information on a woman getting her tubes tied, I find myself fantasizing about having another. In my fantasies, it is great, of course, because what else would a fantasy be? I try to talk myself down, I know how hard it would actually in real life, no sitcom ending, be. Not to mention that truthfully, I am not sure I can afford another kid anyway. But the fantasies keep on coming. I guess the dream never really dies a true death. It never ends, does it?
Except, as I am researching information on a woman getting her tubes tied, I find myself fantasizing about having another. In my fantasies, it is great, of course, because what else would a fantasy be? I try to talk myself down, I know how hard it would actually in real life, no sitcom ending, be. Not to mention that truthfully, I am not sure I can afford another kid anyway. But the fantasies keep on coming. I guess the dream never really dies a true death. It never ends, does it?
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
I Just Had to Share This
During my late online reading last night, I came across this article. It touches on the long term-"ness" of grief. I thought most of us could relate. In case you don't feel like reading the whole article, here are some passages that found me nodding my head in strong agreement.
"Grief is a sneaky bastard. You expect it to ruin your sleep and make you fight back tears on your morning commute and to wander into rooms and forget what you were doing – for a while. You understand that it will spur people to be really nice to you and ask how you’re doing and bring over lasagnas – for a few weeks. And then, you assume, every day it will get a little better and it will hurt a little less. That’s what you think, that is, until the day, long after the lasagnas have stopped rolling in – when something triggers it, and the wound feels so sharp and deep that you feel like no time at all has passed. Until you don’t even know how to talk about what you’re going through any more, because the seasons have changed and the rest of the world has moved on. Until you’re embarrassed that you’re not “over it” yet, and you can’t explain how you’ll still, for just a moment, sometimes forget that you can’t call that person any more, or sit together at the dinner table. Or you’ll laugh at something and then you’ll suddenly be crying because you remember you can’t share it with the one you lost. That’s how grief rips into you. How it surprises you, over and over. It’s not linear. It doesn’t follow a neat path. It drags you all over the landscape, for longer than you ever imagined possible."
And...
" my mother-in-law recently helped start a grief group for women who, like her, are in their second year of widowhood. Their facilitator has to wing it – she said that she’s never done anything that addresses long-term grief. Why not? Why is the notion that grief doesn’t have a simple timeline so hard for us to admit? Is it because we have so many cultural taboos on difficult, complicated emotions? Is it because we’re so quick to put people down for not being strong when they’re really just sad? Or, more hopefully, is it because while we all intellectually understand that loss is forever, we also have to have the faith that pain is not?"
And...
"What happens instead is that the pain changes. It subsides and it morphs. It becomes a scar that you can get around with. And if you’re lucky and you have a lot of love in your life, it can even inspire you, as it has with the Winehouses (who created a foundation in their daughter’s name), to greater heights of compassion and service. But it marks you and it changes you. You never go back to being your old self. You never go back, period, because the person you loved is dead, and that absence is there every day, forever. That’s how grief evolves. It’s when enough time has passed that you start to see that everything else in life changes, except the fact that this person is gone. That that’s your one great, awful constant in a world of flux."
"Grief is a sneaky bastard. You expect it to ruin your sleep and make you fight back tears on your morning commute and to wander into rooms and forget what you were doing – for a while. You understand that it will spur people to be really nice to you and ask how you’re doing and bring over lasagnas – for a few weeks. And then, you assume, every day it will get a little better and it will hurt a little less. That’s what you think, that is, until the day, long after the lasagnas have stopped rolling in – when something triggers it, and the wound feels so sharp and deep that you feel like no time at all has passed. Until you don’t even know how to talk about what you’re going through any more, because the seasons have changed and the rest of the world has moved on. Until you’re embarrassed that you’re not “over it” yet, and you can’t explain how you’ll still, for just a moment, sometimes forget that you can’t call that person any more, or sit together at the dinner table. Or you’ll laugh at something and then you’ll suddenly be crying because you remember you can’t share it with the one you lost. That’s how grief rips into you. How it surprises you, over and over. It’s not linear. It doesn’t follow a neat path. It drags you all over the landscape, for longer than you ever imagined possible."
And...
" my mother-in-law recently helped start a grief group for women who, like her, are in their second year of widowhood. Their facilitator has to wing it – she said that she’s never done anything that addresses long-term grief. Why not? Why is the notion that grief doesn’t have a simple timeline so hard for us to admit? Is it because we have so many cultural taboos on difficult, complicated emotions? Is it because we’re so quick to put people down for not being strong when they’re really just sad? Or, more hopefully, is it because while we all intellectually understand that loss is forever, we also have to have the faith that pain is not?"
And...
"What happens instead is that the pain changes. It subsides and it morphs. It becomes a scar that you can get around with. And if you’re lucky and you have a lot of love in your life, it can even inspire you, as it has with the Winehouses (who created a foundation in their daughter’s name), to greater heights of compassion and service. But it marks you and it changes you. You never go back to being your old self. You never go back, period, because the person you loved is dead, and that absence is there every day, forever. That’s how grief evolves. It’s when enough time has passed that you start to see that everything else in life changes, except the fact that this person is gone. That that’s your one great, awful constant in a world of flux."
Monday, May 14, 2012
They don't make I hate Mothers Day Cards
It's time for me to come out of my mothers day closet. I hate mothers day. I hate it even though I have a living child. My first Mother's Day after *A* was born, I was extremely uncomfortable, and surprised that I still felt sad. I thought by the next one, I would be over it. I wasn't.
That year, *A* was 1 and my father treated all of us to a fancy mother's day brunch at a historic hotel. I was grumpy on the drive over, but didn't know why. When we walked into the buffet room, they were handing out roses. Only to the mothers. I didn't want one, I had some feeling of wanting to be in solidarity to the those who are mothers but wouldn't get roses, but it was too late. My sister had already pointed to me, like, "give her one, she is a mother". I took it and said, "thank you', but inside I felt feverish. I wanted to take my rose, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it till its petals flew all over the room.
I got it. I got the reason I hate mothers day. It's so arrogant somehow, dripping with its "specialness" because you happened to get lucky and have children. The whole air around it, like you, the mother "did something" simply because you have a child. Of course, I have also been the mother who didn't do something, who did not get to loudly proclaim, "I am a mother! I fit in with all of you!"
I don't say any of this to minimize *A* or the fact that I did get to become the mother to a living child. I just can't forget the awful mothers day after *M* was born. And even though I get to pretend, get to participate in the festivities, my heart always aches a bit for the ones I know are sitting at home, crying.
I solved my problem in part by doing something with my mother and mother-in-law the Sunday before Mother's Day. Then, on Mothers Day I can pretend its any other Sunday, a family day, where I get to hang out with *A* and Mr. g.
I came to a realization this year. Don't all woman, at some point in their lives, play a maternal role to someone? The friend, the aunt, your dads girlfriend, a teacher, a neighbor, your sister in law, all of us have had a special woman in our lives. If we're really lucky, we get a wonderful mom AND some great women. *A* has 3 childless aunts. They adore her, and spoil her, and play with her. My two childless sisters are 8+ years younger than me. I have a secret hope that during the teenage years, they can be guiding adults for her without the baggage MOM has. I decided I want to teach *A* that mother's day is a day to show appreciation for all and any woman who has a role in your life. Besides that, I want to teach her that she doesn't have to wait for some "special" day to show that appreciation. Any day will do, and sometimes is even better because there is no obligation tied to it.
That year, *A* was 1 and my father treated all of us to a fancy mother's day brunch at a historic hotel. I was grumpy on the drive over, but didn't know why. When we walked into the buffet room, they were handing out roses. Only to the mothers. I didn't want one, I had some feeling of wanting to be in solidarity to the those who are mothers but wouldn't get roses, but it was too late. My sister had already pointed to me, like, "give her one, she is a mother". I took it and said, "thank you', but inside I felt feverish. I wanted to take my rose, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it till its petals flew all over the room.
I got it. I got the reason I hate mothers day. It's so arrogant somehow, dripping with its "specialness" because you happened to get lucky and have children. The whole air around it, like you, the mother "did something" simply because you have a child. Of course, I have also been the mother who didn't do something, who did not get to loudly proclaim, "I am a mother! I fit in with all of you!"
I don't say any of this to minimize *A* or the fact that I did get to become the mother to a living child. I just can't forget the awful mothers day after *M* was born. And even though I get to pretend, get to participate in the festivities, my heart always aches a bit for the ones I know are sitting at home, crying.
I solved my problem in part by doing something with my mother and mother-in-law the Sunday before Mother's Day. Then, on Mothers Day I can pretend its any other Sunday, a family day, where I get to hang out with *A* and Mr. g.
I came to a realization this year. Don't all woman, at some point in their lives, play a maternal role to someone? The friend, the aunt, your dads girlfriend, a teacher, a neighbor, your sister in law, all of us have had a special woman in our lives. If we're really lucky, we get a wonderful mom AND some great women. *A* has 3 childless aunts. They adore her, and spoil her, and play with her. My two childless sisters are 8+ years younger than me. I have a secret hope that during the teenage years, they can be guiding adults for her without the baggage MOM has. I decided I want to teach *A* that mother's day is a day to show appreciation for all and any woman who has a role in your life. Besides that, I want to teach her that she doesn't have to wait for some "special" day to show that appreciation. Any day will do, and sometimes is even better because there is no obligation tied to it.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Why didn't you tell me you were going?
A well liked football player died here recently. By his own hand. I'm not a football fan, but felt saddened by the story like any human being. It was giving me a lot of thoughts about how money and success don't equate to peace in life. And then I saw this-
Mother
And even though our stories could not be more different, her pain cut through me. A mothers pain.
Mother
And even though our stories could not be more different, her pain cut through me. A mothers pain.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Makes me wonder
I was standing outside the mens bathroom. Mr. g and A were inside the bathroom. I stood next to the empty stroller. A woman walks by, laughs and says, "You lost your baby!!!" Ha, Ha she cackles as she walks away from me.
I startle a bit, and it takes me a moment to get it. I know she doesn't know she has done anything wrong, but suddenly, I want to run after her, grab her by the collar and shake her. I shake my head instead, confused about the behavior. I can't figure out why that is funny. She was probably in her forties, not some goofy teenage girl with friends.
Makes me wonder if I say things so lightly that shakes someone else to the core.
I startle a bit, and it takes me a moment to get it. I know she doesn't know she has done anything wrong, but suddenly, I want to run after her, grab her by the collar and shake her. I shake my head instead, confused about the behavior. I can't figure out why that is funny. She was probably in her forties, not some goofy teenage girl with friends.
Makes me wonder if I say things so lightly that shakes someone else to the core.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Fragility
When Mr. G was 18, he got shot in the face. He was having an argument with his then girlfriend and for some reason, a block or so before they reached her house, he pulled over at the curb. As they continued to argue, a 14 year old kid walked up and said something through the drivers side window. Mr. G remembers feeling irritation due to the argument and rolled the window down and said, "what?" in a short tone. The kid pulled out a gun and shot him.
The thing that I would occasionally marvel at over the years of our dating was the fact that this event didn't seem to change Mr. G. He was open, trusting, comfortable with strangers even at the window of a car. I even remember commenting on this to Mr. G a few times. I always had to explain myself, he never quite understood why I found this so amazing.
"But didn't that frighten you? Make you want to be more cautious?", I would say.
"why would it?" he would calmly answer.
Even not having lived through that event, or even having lived through it as someone who knew Mr. G then, I knew an event like that would put a permanent change in me.
Somewhat like the death of babies did.
Now, I should qualify this story with a little known fact. Losing M did change Mr. G. He is now a bit slower to warm up, more cautious with friends and not in general, not as friendly, outgoing, open, trusting. But this change is very subtle, and most likely noticeable only to a select few. Getting shot at 18 couldn't do what losing M at 32 did.
My change is more severe and obvious. Its why I've spent way to much time over the past 5 years, and the certainly the past 1 1/2 years bemoaning my lost self, wishing her back with childlike fervor. Gone, gone, gone she is.
I was never open, trusting, unguarded the way Mr. G was and is. I was sweeter, less bitter, less angry, more hopeful, and way more tough. Now, in some ways to use the word tough and myself in the same sentence is laughable. Truly, I've never been tough, but really more tender. But, I don't think in all my life before, I ever felt as fragile as I have since December 15th, 2005. It rises and falls, sometimes feeling softer and harder.
It is one of the things I hate about this journey. The feeling that I cannot, will not be able to cope with another very bad thing. And I don't just mean the obvious and extremely feared very bad thing (I will have to do a whole post on that thing itself!) but I also mean the regular stuff. Like, my mom dying. If all happens as it should, she will die before me. I will join the ranks of adults everywhere who have already lost parents. But, I'm scared I won't cope well. Or I even think, what if something terrible happens to my siblings? I don't just mean death, I mean just something, anything bad.
I often feel I was born with a certain amount of resilience and I already used up my allotment. My daughter hasn't been sick too much (knock on wood! MUST knock on wood you know!) but when she has, I always feel this moment during her not feeling well of constriction, I can't breathe. My mind takes me places.....I can hardly bear my child having even a seasonal cold. I cover this, of course. I soothe, take temperatures, give medicine, hugs, snuggles, sit up at night with her, but my mind goes somewhere else. Can I cope? Can I survive this bump in my normal life. I feel unprepared, unqualified.....
I often hear people talk of bad events making them stronger. I'm glad for them, but that has not been my experience. My fragility is one of the lasting impacts of my losses, one on a list of "THINGS I'M STILL WORKING ON". The problem with this list is there seems to be no answer sheet at the back of the book. I fear that the things on this list are lifelong.
The thing that I would occasionally marvel at over the years of our dating was the fact that this event didn't seem to change Mr. G. He was open, trusting, comfortable with strangers even at the window of a car. I even remember commenting on this to Mr. G a few times. I always had to explain myself, he never quite understood why I found this so amazing.
"But didn't that frighten you? Make you want to be more cautious?", I would say.
"why would it?" he would calmly answer.
Even not having lived through that event, or even having lived through it as someone who knew Mr. G then, I knew an event like that would put a permanent change in me.
Somewhat like the death of babies did.
Now, I should qualify this story with a little known fact. Losing M did change Mr. G. He is now a bit slower to warm up, more cautious with friends and not in general, not as friendly, outgoing, open, trusting. But this change is very subtle, and most likely noticeable only to a select few. Getting shot at 18 couldn't do what losing M at 32 did.
My change is more severe and obvious. Its why I've spent way to much time over the past 5 years, and the certainly the past 1 1/2 years bemoaning my lost self, wishing her back with childlike fervor. Gone, gone, gone she is.
I was never open, trusting, unguarded the way Mr. G was and is. I was sweeter, less bitter, less angry, more hopeful, and way more tough. Now, in some ways to use the word tough and myself in the same sentence is laughable. Truly, I've never been tough, but really more tender. But, I don't think in all my life before, I ever felt as fragile as I have since December 15th, 2005. It rises and falls, sometimes feeling softer and harder.
It is one of the things I hate about this journey. The feeling that I cannot, will not be able to cope with another very bad thing. And I don't just mean the obvious and extremely feared very bad thing (I will have to do a whole post on that thing itself!) but I also mean the regular stuff. Like, my mom dying. If all happens as it should, she will die before me. I will join the ranks of adults everywhere who have already lost parents. But, I'm scared I won't cope well. Or I even think, what if something terrible happens to my siblings? I don't just mean death, I mean just something, anything bad.
I often feel I was born with a certain amount of resilience and I already used up my allotment. My daughter hasn't been sick too much (knock on wood! MUST knock on wood you know!) but when she has, I always feel this moment during her not feeling well of constriction, I can't breathe. My mind takes me places.....I can hardly bear my child having even a seasonal cold. I cover this, of course. I soothe, take temperatures, give medicine, hugs, snuggles, sit up at night with her, but my mind goes somewhere else. Can I cope? Can I survive this bump in my normal life. I feel unprepared, unqualified.....
I often hear people talk of bad events making them stronger. I'm glad for them, but that has not been my experience. My fragility is one of the lasting impacts of my losses, one on a list of "THINGS I'M STILL WORKING ON". The problem with this list is there seems to be no answer sheet at the back of the book. I fear that the things on this list are lifelong.
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