I’m having a particularly hard day today.
Trying not to think back to those days leading up to Christmas, when I knew something was wrong but didn’t know I knew. Trying not to think about which day was which, what I did on the 22nd, or the 23rd, or the 24th. It’s enough knowing that on the 25th I felt my little boy’s last movements. It’s enough knowing that on the 25th we learned he was dead. Enough knowing it’s been two years now.
No, it’s not “enough.” It’s too much. Some days it’s just too much.
I have a poem up on Glow this week. A small thing. A quiet thing. I have so much to say, but it’s all jammed up in my head. Beginnings of sentences. Middles of tirades. Ends of sobs. None of it feels new. And I am reminded that this is what trauma is–a wound that may heal but leaves a scar that aches on rainy days. And that there are triggers that take me right back there. To the grief. To the loneliness. The isolation. The touch of death in my womb. The fear that I could spread it.
Being there–here–is so familiar.
I guess some days I feel like I’ve really reached a place people call the “new normal.” Our little family is doing well, me and A and baby M and our absent little boy. But “normal” implies somewhat like everyone else, and days like today I remember that we are not like everyone else. We are apart, the babylost. Forever changed.
© Burning Eye