Today was a rough day emotionally and I just need to scream. There is a real list of things that make missing Hannah even worse for me. I've been tracking it in my head, but I need to vent it, just like I need to vent everything else.
1. People telling me that "This is God's plan." First of all, don't presume to think you know God's plan. You don't. It's just that simple.
2. People asking me how I'm doing and then giving me The Look. The Aw Poor Little Puppy Are You Going to Cry Now Look.
3. Therapy. I have no idea what to say. I can't verbalize my feelings at all. But I still go because someday I'm sure it will all come flooding out.
4. Everyday life. It's too hard.
5. People calling Hannah an angel. She shouldn't be an angel, she should be a living, breathing baby. Stop acting like Angel Hannah is a good thing
6. God - I'm still really angry at Him.
7. People who act like her death was didn't matter. (giving my in-laws the side eye here)
8. Christmas (it used to be my favorite, now I can't stand it)
9. That the door to Hannah's nursery stays closed. I also hate it when it's open and I can see the beautiful room, put together with love and going unused.
10. Myself for letting this all happen. For not being able to stop it. For losing her when Brent, Charlie and I loved her so, so much.
Monday, February 23, 2015
Sunday, February 22, 2015
The Truth is...
I try to smile my way through the day. I'm not feeling it, I'm never feeling it, but I make myself do it because maybe, eventually it will be true. It has to eventually be true, doesn't it? It can't always feel like this. It has to get better.
But the truth is it won't ever get better. I will always have a gaping tear in my soul where Hannah should be. It will always hurt. It will always be a sore spot. Like a pulled muscle, I'll be walking along just fine and then suddenly I'll turn a certain way and waves of pain will wash over me. That's when it comes rushing back. It hurts. It hurts now and it will hurt always. This isn't something that will ever heal.
It kills me that I still have to function in everyday life. The world wasn't affected the way I was affected. How can my tiny girl leave this world and life still goes on? Everyone can still smile and enjoy the world around them. I have lost that ability. Maybe over time I will regain some of it, but it will never truly be the same. I'll never be able to have a blind faith that good things are coming. That our struggles were enough and now we get the reward. That faith is gone, stripped away in a quiet hospital room, in a quiet delivery room, in the middle of a dark night, holding my sweet girl and crying because that was the only night I'd spending holding her. What wouldn't I give for sleepless nights with my Hannah right now.
When people ask, I always say, "I'm fine" or "Just taking it day by day." But the truth is I'm not. And I won't ever be. How could I when I am missing part of my soul. I wish people would just stop asking how I am. I want to ask back "How the hell do you think I am. How would you be?" And I feel like I am expected not just to say I'm fine, but to actually be fine. Because grief is tedious and ugly and well, it's sad and no one wants to deal with it if they don't have to. And they are tired of looking at the grieving mother, with the missing smile, the fine lines around the eyes that scream "Sadness lives here!"
So I say I'm fine and hold it together until I'm alone, until I'm somewhere where I can cry and remember. Because unless you've been through this you can never understand how it feels, you'll never grasp the truth of it. It's beyond any imagination.
But the truth is it won't ever get better. I will always have a gaping tear in my soul where Hannah should be. It will always hurt. It will always be a sore spot. Like a pulled muscle, I'll be walking along just fine and then suddenly I'll turn a certain way and waves of pain will wash over me. That's when it comes rushing back. It hurts. It hurts now and it will hurt always. This isn't something that will ever heal.
It kills me that I still have to function in everyday life. The world wasn't affected the way I was affected. How can my tiny girl leave this world and life still goes on? Everyone can still smile and enjoy the world around them. I have lost that ability. Maybe over time I will regain some of it, but it will never truly be the same. I'll never be able to have a blind faith that good things are coming. That our struggles were enough and now we get the reward. That faith is gone, stripped away in a quiet hospital room, in a quiet delivery room, in the middle of a dark night, holding my sweet girl and crying because that was the only night I'd spending holding her. What wouldn't I give for sleepless nights with my Hannah right now.
When people ask, I always say, "I'm fine" or "Just taking it day by day." But the truth is I'm not. And I won't ever be. How could I when I am missing part of my soul. I wish people would just stop asking how I am. I want to ask back "How the hell do you think I am. How would you be?" And I feel like I am expected not just to say I'm fine, but to actually be fine. Because grief is tedious and ugly and well, it's sad and no one wants to deal with it if they don't have to. And they are tired of looking at the grieving mother, with the missing smile, the fine lines around the eyes that scream "Sadness lives here!"
So I say I'm fine and hold it together until I'm alone, until I'm somewhere where I can cry and remember. Because unless you've been through this you can never understand how it feels, you'll never grasp the truth of it. It's beyond any imagination.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
The Quiet Moments
It was in a quiet room, surrounded by silence, that the doctor told us we lost H. So it only makes sense that it's in the quiet moments that it all comes rushing back and any sense of peace that I thought I had found is shattered.
It comes rushing in the dark, early morning hours, when I'm alone in my car and soft music is playing. Walking down a long hallway at the office, in the shower, when I'm falling asleep, when I'm watching C play. Especially when I am watching C play. It hits me all at once that there is one where there should be two. That there will be a hole in our family forever. That all the love and laughter in the world can keep us from falling into the pit, but they will never fill it up. We will always grieve. We will always have that hole and we'll just learn to dance around it. Tentatively and slowly, but someday we will learn to dance around it.
It comes rushing in the dark, early morning hours, when I'm alone in my car and soft music is playing. Walking down a long hallway at the office, in the shower, when I'm falling asleep, when I'm watching C play. Especially when I am watching C play. It hits me all at once that there is one where there should be two. That there will be a hole in our family forever. That all the love and laughter in the world can keep us from falling into the pit, but they will never fill it up. We will always grieve. We will always have that hole and we'll just learn to dance around it. Tentatively and slowly, but someday we will learn to dance around it.
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