, ,

Believe it or not, I spend most of my thoughts on writing out blog posts. I find writing to be incredibly therapeutic. I have five drafts sitting on my desktop from this month alone. But then I take a look at them and figure you probably don’t actually care to read about what I have to say and I walk away from them. Because, really, who wants to read about my grief day in and day out? About my monstrous jealousy, or how we can’t settle on a name for our child and it sends me into a dizzying panic at night? Or about how pregnancy used to be merely a scary thought but now it’s downright terrifying? Who wants to read about my nearly crippling grief that paralyzes me for hours at a time? Thankfully, my kid has no qualms with entertaining himself.

Sometimes, I think maybe I should just write about our recent trips to Kyoto and Hakone, about our new home just outside Tokyo. Or maybe I should let this blog die, until I eventually forget it ever existed. That if I pretend the miscarriage didn’t happen, maybe I’ll actually start to feel like it didn’t. But I know I can’t let it die and I can’t seem to write about anything but my never-ending grief. Plus, I’m pretty sure hell will freeze over before I forget about the children I once carried but will never know in this life.

It’s hard to be in this grieving cycle again. Of course, it’s tough for the obvious reasons: duh, dead baby, lost hope. But it’s also hard because I know in a couple years I will actually be okay. Which is really just more happy than sad about our darling angel. You never go back to being innocently happy. The sad doesn’t go away. You would think I’d find that freeing, that I could fully grieve with the end in sight. But in all actuality, it just brings those societal pressures of how bereaved parents should feel to surface: it was never a baby, not too long ago you’d never have even known you were pregnant, there was probably something wrong with it (my baby is not an ‘it’, damnit), at least you weren’t farther along, at least you have Sam, at least you can get pregnant, at least your child isn’t suffering from xyz, at least, at least, at least... I cannot seem to reconcile my grief with this little voice in the back of my head that constantly says “if you know you’ll be okay eventually, Ashli, why can’t you just be okay now?”

Another piece of my soul has been ripped away from me, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I am out of control and angry and sad and bitter and jealous.

Thank God for the grace that He constantly gives, or I’d really be in trouble. Somehow, I am able to get out of bed everyday. Not necessarily because I want to, but because I have a little ray of sunshine who believes in waking with the sun. And I’m thankful for him: my bundle of joy, who snuggles with me and holds my hand when he has no idea just how much I need it.