I'd hoped watching football in my husband's absence would be a good distraction. It hasn't been. The Steelers won, as expected, and even Rooi put himself to bed long before the game ended. My desired distraction hasn't eclipsed the other distraction of needing to process more. I've been keeping thoughts in my head for weeks now and well, that's just not a good place for them.
In reality, I have a complex relationship with sharing, with transmission and reception. Don't we all? Who likes to talk about feelings of fear, loss, grief; or experiences like divorce, death, abuse? But, once it's in our purview, it feels pervasive. (Like when I got engaged, I suddenly noticed all of the wedding and bridal crap in the world around me which had never before been part of my consciousness.) There is something a little scary about recounting having been in a space of not knowing where I assumed I did know. It's this thought, the not really "knowing" or understanding that has spurred more writing tonight.
At the end of my last blog post, I promised myself that I'd move forward, one day at time. How am I doing?
Today, I ate a marshmallow and two eggs for breakfast and now I have a headache.
Today, I took many of the sweets and treats left over from the holiday and threw them all in the trash.
Today, the movement forward is slower, slower than I want or believe it "should" be.
Today, a month since I miscarried, I feel stuck, slow, tired, sad.
Today, I worry I'm faking it, building a protective shell to prevent my vulnerability from seeping through.
Today, I am lonely and I want to be alone.
By the time Damon returns from his "working vacation" he will have been home in Albuquerque only 5 of the previous 38 days. Mind you, I spent 11 of those with him in Colorado, but I still miss him (and am rightfully jealous of him!). Though our shared loss is very real, my grief is mine and his his, together or not. Though his warmth and presence softens my fear and sadness, the majority of my experience is in my heart, by myself.
I find writing helps me and the irony is that no matter what I write or say, there are limits to how or what others understand. Each of us interprets life through our own lens. I choose to write - it's my lens. Turns out writing in a more public venue like this blog gives me the opportunity to "talk" about my experience so that others may, perhaps, have a chance to connect in some way to their own life.
The catch for me? Though I want to share, I don't want to be fussed over or felt sorry for. Honestly, this is the hard bit for me because being "out" about my feelings and experience in this forum doesn't necessarily translate into being as transparent in person, in other pubic forums (i.e. teaching Nia). Nor do I desire that transparency most times. In my friendships and in my role as a teacher I tend to be less vulnerable; I understand the role of boundaries for keeping me safe. Yet, sometimes I think this is where I'm faking it, especially as a Nia teacher. And I feel sad for this. As a student of Nia (which I rarely take the opportunity to be anymore) it was a different story. My boundaries were different and my processing could be more personal. Essentially, I was more anonymous.
A month ago I was quick to process my loss with a blog post hidden in the folds of my monthly email. It was a way of telling people without actually telling people. And as the weeks wore on I felt compelled for people to know me in this space of loss. This included choosing to tell people like my cherished uncle and dad (both of whom expressed much more sadness and grief than I expected) that I had both been pregnant and lost that pregnancy. A double whammy of joy and pain in one sentence. Other people, like my sisters-in-law, I felt deserved an "explanation" of my behavior: distance, exhaustion, emotional roller-coastiness because I felt shame for feeling the so-called normal feelings. Fuckin' shame!
What happened when I "revealed" I'd miscarried was I became privy to so, so, so many other women's experience of the same; some of them multiple times over. I am now part of a club of women who have gone through the same experience. Now, don't get me wrong, I am not naïve to the reality of miscarriage. I knew many women experience miscarriage. I knew, at my age, I was a likely candidate. But, I was still so struck by my own surprise and my own sadness for the loss and for feeling like I needed to keep it personal (some friends, colleagues, family, clients, and students knew, though not all). I felt stunned by the number of "Me too's" I heard and so I am sharing beyond the smaller circles. Which means this post is not hidden in the folds of a newsletter or note to select people, but it's going on that damned Facebook, for better or worse...
Though I'm teary still every 5 or 6 days, I remind myself that grief has no rules. And I'm grateful to have recently had the opportunity to dance, be a student, on the Solstice with my mother accompanying me. As I moved freely, unbound by responsibility, I wept and moved grief the way I do best, through movement.
I have no personally desired outcome from writing. I hope that my words might resonate for someone else living through a rough chapter. My story is not a tragedy and is also not innocuous; I hope it can be a connector in a web of humanity we all seek.