I used to be fun.
I used to smile – more.
I used to take life, work, people, things head on.
Now…Now, I don’t know what I am. I am tense. Afraid. Scarred. Damaged. Nervous. Anxious. Angry. Riddled with PTSD.
Now, I stay in bed, avoiding, being afraid. Worrying. Remembering those awful days in 2008. Dreading anything even remotely resembling those days. Waking up after yet another nightmare of having THAT again. Fearful that this one will leave me too. Grieving that I will never, ever be like those other mothers – the ones who send their beautiful post L&D pictures. The ones who write about their magical, unmedicated births where everything is perfect, perfect, perfect and their only complaints are babies who come 3 days past their due date or 3 days “early.” The ones whose babies come out, squealing and wriggling. The ones who cruised through pregnancy – the most natural and joyful thing a woman can do. The ones who only have love and joy in their eyes when they talk about motherhood.
I will always have sadness accompanying my love.
I’ll always have a husband who, like me, has “triggers” and “stuff.” Who comes home from stopping by the grocery store and says, “I don’t want to – want to buy flowers to put on her grave stone when I walk through the produce department.”
I want to look at flowers because they are beautiful – not because they are something I buy regularly when I visit the place where she isn’t.
Sure. I’ll have my healthy, living baby in the next couple weeks but it won’t be according to MY plans.
A complaint: Why can’t I, for once in my fucking life just be normal and like other people!? Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated for me!? When – when – when will it be MY turn to send out beautiful pictures, to bask in lovely memories and fond doting by others, for everything to just BE nice and easy and joyful – for ME. When will it be MY TURN?
Just once.
Whimsical Rumination 