It's been months since I've last written, but not as long as I thought. I imagined at least a year having passed since my last post but it's only been about four months. Not too bad, but far longer than I'd like. I still have hopes and dreams of re-launching this blog into a sense of regularity, resurrecting the pretty picture collages and day themes. I make no promise of such an effort -- I will write when I have the creative brain power and time.
Now seems to be one of those times.
images courtesy of thatkindofwoman.tumblr.com
A lot has been on my mind as the year has folded into autumn, my favourite season for every comfy reason -- fruity pies, football all Saturday long, coats and sweaters, pots of soups and chili simmering on the stovetop. I often find myself contemplative this time of year. I'm not sure why but perhaps it has something to do with my birthday in August and my wedding anniversary in October -- two large life events.
My birthday is no longer just my birthday -- it is the anniversary of my first miscarriage -- forever changed. In the fall of last year, I curled up into healing position, leaning on family and friends to help me through the hard time. I was in a job I didn't like, surrounded by people I didn't connect with, a long commute, and a body I couldn't whip back into shape.
As time passed, I settled into a routine of denial -- faking my life as I knew it, and eventually I had events to look forward to -- Thanksgiving and Christmas were right around the corner, and I loved both holidays immensely. Both were jampacked with traditions I treasured that we had created as a family. As we moved through Thanksgiving and then Christmas, I felt all was well and couldn't foresee the depression that was looming ahead, ready to bulldoze my denial and send me down a rabbit hole.
Because, you see, I was pregnant again.
But this baby was also not meant to be, and my miscarriage was set for Valentine's Day. The night before was a Friday, so my husband and I dressed up and lived up the night at our favourite French restaurant, Cafe Claude. We looked dashing together and he kept reminding me how pretty I looked that night. The following day I buckled in pain -- the agony familiar from the first time.
Healing took longer and required more help. I couldn't brush it aside by sleeping it off or faking happiness; I just didn't have it inside of me. All my happiness was gone, swept from me without consent. I lashed out at my family and pulled away from my God and faith, angry at their promises instead of hopeful. My eyes flooded with tears at the slightest mention of family or when someone showed sincere love toward me or even just random moments. I'd find myself dashing to the bathroom to hide from my coworkers so I wouldn't have to explain.
I could no longer burden my family and friends, especially my husband, with my sadness so I turned to a therapist. And that started to help.
It helped but it still took time, which was the most valuable lesson my therapist taught me. Patience with myself during this painful time was what I needed more than anything. Patience to let myself feel what I needed to feel. Patience to let myself cry. Patience with my body as the reminders of the pregnancy started to fade. Patience.
Finally hope and faith were restored, and even happiness. My life has been forever changed -- I'm not the person I was before those two pregnancies. My naivete has been washed away by life experience, and my emotions are now ever-present at the surface, ready to flood down my cheeks.
Yet, life improvements continue. I found a new job, with people I related to better. I signed up for bar method classes and quickly fell in love with the routine and community of women. I finished my copy editing course and started reading. I started talking and sharing my story with women around me, finding a similar story in a woman who has now become a friend and confidante.
And here I am now. The depression and denial are in my past; we're about to move back into our apartment which has been remodeled/updated since a pipe burst mid-June; and I'm enjoying the last bites of the first pot of chili this season -- many more to follow.
Life and me -- we're doing pretty okay.
Yours truly, and until we meet again,
KCB
