Thursday, June 18, 2009
I feel like I am in some kind of black hole, a void of sorts. I am a horse walking along a dark road with blinders on and cotton in my ears. It is a road I have walked on before, so I'm not falling in any holes or crashing into trees, but I'm not giving into anything around me, either.
I am here in a rainy, cool June, muddling along with my two little children by my side, going through the motions of my life and actually enjoying the ride as well, but with blinders on both sides so that I can't see into my past or my future. Really. At all.
I cannot specifically say what is at the root of this, although it is not difficult for me to hypothesize. My past holds loss, sadness, and despair as the beginning of my mothering journey. As those experiences become more and more part of my history with the passage of time, so also does the optionality of considering those experiences on a daily basis. I can remember Charlotte as a part of my life, at this point, without choosing to remember the associated pain and agony of her loss. I can just think of her. While there is something about this that makes my heart sing at the liberation of it all, I also bemoan the ordinariness of being able to just ponder such a great loss on a rather mundane level. Still, at the crux of this is my facility with dissociating myself completely from the painful memories at will, and this spring I find myself much more likely to do this than I ever have in the past.
This is unusual only because I like the pain sometimes, I crave the recall of the rawness of the loss because somehow the deep sadness represents my love and commitment to Charlotte. To choose not to recall those painful moments on such a regular basis sometimes means I am remembering the actual time around her birth and death less, and this is not a choice I like to make.
But clearly there is a source to this, and the source is as we speak squirming around inside my belly and causing me a great deal of confusion. This is because I still have not accepted the truth of this pregnancy, I still quiver at the concept of believing it to be true. The risk of speaking of this baby as real, as fact, as there seems too great a risk for me to take, and so I resist looking into the future in much the same way as I am currently avoiding glances towards my past. I cannot go there. I want it to be real, but I cannot believe that it will be. I feel squiggles and blips and rather than delighting in this obvious sign of vitality and well-being, I find myself listing off the other bodily functions that could be causing such sensations. I am doing more than knocking on wood when I speak of my future, I speak with downcast eyes as if I am telling a lie, as if I am misleading myself and others on a mythical journey that will never materialize. I don't like this, either.
Where is my relationship with this baby, when I can't even admit that it's there? I know that by the 18th week with both Liam and Aoife I was not in such a state of denial. So why now? I just write notes of apology in the baby's book, over and over, trying to explain that I don't know why it's so difficult this time, but it is.
So I am here, in the here and now, working not to look back, or forward, but wanting to do both. May the warmth of the summer sun bring the energy I need to go to the places I need to go.