Yesterday I was trying to drive down the road and felt something weird on my lips. I say 'trying' because I am such a mush brain with my new identity as a grieving mother that I will end up forgetting where I am or making wrong turns on a familiar route.
Well I realized the weird thing on my lips was a slight smile. Funny, huh, or not funny. The last couple days I have been having such negative feelings, ones I haven't seen since being a teenager. Thoughts like "I hate my life" and "I care about nothing" and thoughts I can't even really touch and put into words.
My life circumstances are dawning on me, meaning I am stepping into another layer of my sphere of consciousness.
Since the premature birth of the babies and their subsequent deaths I have only been feeling the overwhelming grief and loss of Abigail and Zaria. Being back in N.C. has brought on the realizations of what stage I would have been in my pregnancy and how the girls would have been born around Thanksgiving.
Our little nuclear family escaped to the shore for a few days to be alone together and spend time healing and grieving on the sandy shore, looking out over the expanse of ocean. It dawned on me during one solitary walk right after the sun set and as the moon light shone over the waves, that wide open spaces aid in my healing in a way that other spaces do not. Likening this experience to my walks in the desert in Reno or the couple times I was able to reach a meditative state....open, empty spaces are good for the soul.
Back to the smile....the reason for it being so foreign is that I have spent two days in an emotional uproar over losing all the small things in life. I have lost the ease of my food systems that my family spent years setting up. I have lost the momentum that our new small business had gained. I have lost my home and lost sight of most of my belongings that friends had packed for me. I lost many of my benefits of my pregnancy Medicaid insurance. I lost my cat.
I have lost hope. The hope that was burning so intensely for two months (and before when I carried the babies in my womb and even before that when I knew for some years that we would have more children). I do hope for my body to carry and deliver and nurse more children. Although that hope is dull because my attitude is dull (at least at this moment). Today is the calm after the storm...
Well I realized the weird thing on my lips was a slight smile. Funny, huh, or not funny. The last couple days I have been having such negative feelings, ones I haven't seen since being a teenager. Thoughts like "I hate my life" and "I care about nothing" and thoughts I can't even really touch and put into words.
My life circumstances are dawning on me, meaning I am stepping into another layer of my sphere of consciousness.
Since the premature birth of the babies and their subsequent deaths I have only been feeling the overwhelming grief and loss of Abigail and Zaria. Being back in N.C. has brought on the realizations of what stage I would have been in my pregnancy and how the girls would have been born around Thanksgiving.
Our little nuclear family escaped to the shore for a few days to be alone together and spend time healing and grieving on the sandy shore, looking out over the expanse of ocean. It dawned on me during one solitary walk right after the sun set and as the moon light shone over the waves, that wide open spaces aid in my healing in a way that other spaces do not. Likening this experience to my walks in the desert in Reno or the couple times I was able to reach a meditative state....open, empty spaces are good for the soul.
Back to the smile....the reason for it being so foreign is that I have spent two days in an emotional uproar over losing all the small things in life. I have lost the ease of my food systems that my family spent years setting up. I have lost the momentum that our new small business had gained. I have lost my home and lost sight of most of my belongings that friends had packed for me. I lost many of my benefits of my pregnancy Medicaid insurance. I lost my cat.
I have lost hope. The hope that was burning so intensely for two months (and before when I carried the babies in my womb and even before that when I knew for some years that we would have more children). I do hope for my body to carry and deliver and nurse more children. Although that hope is dull because my attitude is dull (at least at this moment). Today is the calm after the storm...
There are no words, Hope. I can't imagine your grief. Just keep trying to put one foot in front of the other. You are loved.
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