Amnesia

I wish that I could wake up with amnesia

I'm in a weird place in life right now.

I can't find my place in the artificially-illuminated sun of social media. Where do I fit in among perfect tans and perfect bodies? Perfect outfits and perfect romances? Perfect baby announcements & perfect families? Perfectly curated highlight reels of best moments, biggest adventures, and clever captions?

See, I have this thing about authenticity.... and I feel like a shadow in the corner.

I've patiently sat here for six months of stony social media silence because I’ve had nothing beautiful, good, or meaningful to add-- no words have come. No glimmers of hope peaking through the clouds. No fistfuls of faith to share— just empty hands that hang down and “a dim flock of endless prayers” hanging above me. I feel like the little glittering flame of hope that danced inside my chest and carried me through the first eight months of grief flickered, faltered, faded and finally went out.

What do I have left to give? Where do I fit in? I don't know how to answer those questions or explain why grief feels harder now than it was a year ago, or why it's suddenly hard to talk about her, or why I just want to ....forget.

I wish it never happened-- all of it-- her life, her death.

...forget about the stupid little things. Like the way it felt to fall asleep next to you, and the memories I never can escape

Even the good memories because the ache of loss is too hard right now. In the infant loss community we say often that we are grateful for the time we did have-- but lately seven months doesn’t feel like enough. It feels cruel. Like the night she died and I stood alone in front of the bathroom mirror shaking and staring at my still red stretch marks numbly repeating "I was pregnant for her longer than she was here." I couldn't process how that could be possible.

...and the dreams you left behind you didn't need them, like every single wish we ever made

I'll say it over and over again-- the thing that shocked me the most about grief was how human it was. How completely vulnerable and fragile I felt. How nauseatingly REAL it was-- like nothing in my life before had ever been real until I experienced the finality of death.

It's hard to hear your name when I haven't seen you in so long

She's gone and I'm left to walk in a world of questions like--

"Was I not a good mother? Was that the best way for me to raise children? God had to physically take them from me or give them a disability so I couldn’t ruin them with my mothering? Was their best chance not to be raised by me?"

"Is God really good?"

"Will God take Payson too?"

"If she’s happier there and 'in a better place', why am I still here?"

"How much is divine design, and how much is result of living in a fallen world with other people and a world where laws of nature and accidents are permitted? How much is God really involved, or is it all chaos?"

It hurts to know you're happy-- it hurts that you've moved on. If what we had was real, how could you be fine?

I thought that religion answered all the gaping questions in life-- but it doesn't. I thought that it would shield me from feeling the devastation of loss-- that I wouldn't have to grieve because I believed. But I'm finding that if religion DID answer all the jarring, gaping questions there would be no reason for faith, no reason for prayer. Because there are gaping holes that remain unanswered, I keep [dimly] praying. For the past few months my prayers have sounded like-- "Im mad and I don't want to talk to you today."
But I'm trying to keep that line open-- even when my heart is contracted tight in my chest and there's lots of big feelings but nothing to say.

There are days we say it was worth it to have the time that we had with our loved ones, but if you offered me a magic amnesia potion today and I could forget all of it-- I would drink it down. No hesitation.

Cause I'm not fine at all

I have no other purpose in sharing this except to expose my shadowy existence here and hope that somehow acknowledging where I am will bring back my voice. 

Until then, I am here. Hating it, stumbling around, trying to find my place (and my voice), and doing it all quite poorly.