While everything I write in this blog is true, I should admit that I don’t always share everything, and I try to leave some of the negatives out on purpose. When I read back through my past blogs, I almost feel like it’s some other person that must have written those things, someone stronger and wiser than me. I don’t feel strong or wise. I feel broken and battered. And sometimes, I. am. not. okay.

I think I’ve mentioned before that there is a darkness that comes with loss like this. Well, lately, the darkness has swallowed me whole, and it just won’t spit me out. I don’t write this as a cry for help, (I’m getting help) I write it for the sake of honesty. As Lucy’s six month milestone creeps nearer, I am not okay. As I continue to be tormented and then disappointed again by my own body, I am not okay. As I find more and more that hope simply isn’t enough to carry me through this, I am not okay. As I find myself wishing I just won’t wake up the next morning (because this is too damn hard) and the thought is met with immediate guilt at the idea of hurting those I love most, I am not okay. As I realize how tired I am of myself, I am not okay. When I realize how much distance this depression and grief has forced me to keep with some of my dearest friends, I am not okay. When I think of how there are years and years of this ahead of me, I am not okay. When I look around my classroom and wish more than anything I could just walk out, I am not okay. When one of my new students innocently asks if I have any kids, I am not okay. When I wish days, weeks, months, and years of my life away, I am not okay. When all I want in this entire world is to have my daughter back knowing it can never happen, I am not okay.

How can I be so very ‘not okay’, yet ‘okay’ at the same time? How can a person exist in a paradox like this? This is what Hell must be like. I don’t always know what to believe, but I now believe in Hell because I am living there every single day. It does exist. Just when I find a moment in which I think I’m okay, something changes that. I don’t want to do all of these things I’m obligated to do. I don’t want to teach (and to think, I used to think that was my purpose!), I don’t want to smile, I don’t want to go through the mundane motions of my miserable daily life right now. Yet it feels like I have no choice. I am so weary of always having to act like everything is okay, even when it is so clearly not. I have never been so tired before.

I think it won’t always be this way, but right now, it’s a heavy load to carry, and I’m starting to feel mighty weak.

I’ve been in a strange place these past couple of weeks. I am surviving, and even doing okay, but it still feels like a dark shadow lingers over much of my life. I’m sure that the time of year isn’t helping… we haven’t seen the sun (aside from one day, I think) in over a month. It’s been so cloudy, gray, and drab, and we’re all so over it. It’s hard to keep one’s spirits up when everything is so dreary, but to have grief sitting on top of that too adds its own kind of darkness. I have been in a funk, and though I’m doing my best to take measures to stay above it, I seem to keep getting buried under it all anyway. It is so frustrating to exist this way. I can’t help but wonder how long I will live like this, in the fog of depression and sadness. The way it looks and feels now, it will be forever. The way I miss Lucy, it will be for all eternity. I am in pieces, and there’s no superglue in sight.

I finally made myself take Lucy’s Christmas tree down today. Yes, it is January 29, and I just took the Christmas tree down. It was hard to make myself do it because it was something meant to honor Lucy, but I managed. I tucked her ornaments safely away, and put a couple of special ones on the shelf with her urn. I put the dragonfly and her “L” monogram next to her. I couldn’t help but wonder, as I wrapped the decorations up, if when I see them again, our life will look and be different than it is now. Will there be more that we’re looking forward to or experiencing? Or will it be the same? The thought of it being the same is actually rather scary, because I feel like I am simply existing and surviving right now. Does it get any easier? I don’t know.

There really is nothing uplifting for me to report with this entry, I’m afraid. There continues to be disappointment when it comes to possibly expanding our family, which is very discouraging. I think it will happen someday, but until then, it is so hard to be in this place. My frustration grows larger each day. I am losing hope with a lot of things lately, and I don’t know if I can put a positive spin on anything right now. I am allergic to Hope. No, literally, I am allergic to hope! I love essential oils, and haven’t worn perfume since I got pregnant with Lucy, so sometimes I’ll just dab a little spot of it on, just for a pleasant scent, and because it soothes me too. So, I thought I’d do that with a synergy blend titled “Hope”. Bad move- turns out, my skin had an allergic reaction to it. It seems too symbolic right now; I’m actually allergic to hope! Ugh. I want to let hope win over my fear, but when dumb stuff like that happens, I have to wonder what the universe is trying to tell me. Ridiculous, I know, but my moods lately have me in a pretty dark place. I am trying not to lose hope, but something needs to change soon or my weak grip on it is going to loosen even more.

I finally did have a crying spell in front of my students last week. That was just peachy, and of course I couldn’t leave the room for some privacy because I had 26 kids in there that I was responsible for. Lovely to be trapped in a room with your grief along with so many witnesses. The trigger was an all-staff email from a co-worker (I’ve only met her once actually; I was gone for the first marking period and she is new this year)… she began the email by thanking the staff for their support of her while she’s been having pregnancy complications. It was very sincere, and she was just giving us all an update on her well-being. She went on to say that she was in pre-term labor, but the docs said baby is great and it will be a short stay in the NICU. Pictures to follow. I, of course, want her baby to be okay, I want ALL babies to be okay. But, it was a trigger. Her baby is premature, but the docs all know and they also know what to expect. They can ensure her sweet baby’s survival. Now, obviously I know there are no guarantees on anything in this life, but it’s so likely that her baby will make it just fine, even though he or she is not quite physically ready for the world. Our Lucy was perfectly healthy and physically ready for the world, but she ended up not being okay. That thought right there was what started the tears, and once they started, I couldn’t stop them. Luckily, it was exam week, and the students were studying their review guide which at least meant that I wasn’t ‘on stage’. I wasn’t sobbing loudly or anything, but the tears just kept flowing. I was able to sort of hide at my desk and keep it as isolated as possible, but it was still pretty awful. Sometimes, things just pop up out of nowhere in the places we least expect them and take us by surprise. Like a work email. It got to Chris too, and we both had a bit of a rough time with it. Those kinds of things make the grief feel so overwhelming, and always when I get to the point where I’m almost okay.

I continue to try to find signs of Lucy where and when I can. It’s the thing that makes my days better. Sometimes it’s just the most subtle, coincidental thing. Today, I was vacuuming our bedroom and I looked down on the carpet, and the cord had twisted itself into the most perfect cursive “L”. I have been aching for my Lucy, and then, just like that, there was a little piece of her name, right in front of me. Those little bits and pieces might seem like nothing to anyone else, but they feel like a moment of comfort delivered to me by my sweet Lucy girl. I’ll take what precious little I can get these days.

“L” for Lucy, for love…

Maybe it’s the new month, the new year, the thought of going back to work tomorrow, the bad dream I had last night, my inability to sleep past 4am, the whole time thing, or what, but I feel left behind somehow today. Things just aren’t right (well, when are they ever, really?) My anxiety is high, tears are quick, and I feel alone, discouraged, and heartsick. I had a really weird dream last night, and I’ll spare the reader all of the details, but in it, I was yelling (well, screaming hysterically rather) at a man I didn’t know, “My baby died! Don’t you know that my baby died?! Don’t you care?? Doesn’t anyone care??” That part of it was very vivid and I woke up with a start, covered in sweat, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. My mind was racing, and I’ve been kind of a mess ever since. In the middle of a crying spell today, Chris sat next to me to comfort me, and I blubbered that I don’t really even know what’s wrong with me, other than the obvious. It’s not a special day or a milestone day or anything, but everything feels terribly wrong. It’s just a grief wave and the tide is in. After chatting for a few minutes, something hit me- the rest of the world has moved on. Chris and I are the only ones left truly standing in this grief, except for maybe my mom and his parents. Everyone else has moved on, and Lucy is now a sad memory. And the worst part is, that’s what is supposed to happen. Time heals the wounds of the onlookers, but the characters in the tragedy are left behind in their misery. Time will not heal us in this case, but it will heal everyone else. I know that many people were truly impacted by Lucy’s death, and in some ways still are, but they get to move on. They’re supposed to move on. Everyone else we know has already gotten to return to their normal lives because it didn’t happen to them. I don’t begrudge anyone that, not at all. But it makes me feel even more alone. Even more vulnerable, even more desperate to cling to my baby’s memory. And worse yet, it feels as though no one else understands how raw the pain still is, that oftentimes, I am anything but okay. And that sometimes, people say truly hurtful things without even knowing it, because I seem ‘okay’ or look ‘normal’. It breaks my heart. No one truly could understand this unless it happened to them too. (I must say that I would still rather Chris and I be standing alone in this than to have anyone in our lives have to go through this hell too in order to understand.) It’s such a lonely, desolate place to be. I am also beginning to find that a divide is starting to form between me and some of the people I treasure; it’s getting harder for me to relate to their happiness and good fortune, and harder for them to relate to my sadness and loss. It leaves me feeling exhausted and even more heartbroken. And none of it is anyone’s fault- not mine, not theirs, it’s no one’s fault. It’s just the way it is as the passage of time continues. I don’t know why this takes me by surprise today… I mean, what did I expect? Of course everyone else was going to move on. That’s life. It’s like Ralph Waldo Emerson stated, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” He was right, it goes on indeed whether you think it’s possible or not, whether you’re ready or not. Reality is a cruel, harsh thing.

I miss her.

I’m not doing the ‘New Year’s Resolution’ bit this year, for obvious reasons. I did read an article this morning by Emily Long called “Reclaiming New Years Without My Babies”. It made me think that instead of all of the hoopla and energy going into unrealized resolutions (let’s face it, my motivation levels are rather unpredictable these days), that I too will pick a word and let it serve as a theme or motif to lead me through 2017. The word I’ve chosen is HOPE.

As I said in yesterday’s Year of Lucy post, hope, along with love, are the things that have kept me afloat. I know that my grief journey is still new and that I will need to continue to pick up tools along the way in order to navigate through it well. Perhaps this concept of a guiding word will be of some help. There is so much darkness, despair, and sadness that accompanies me each day in my grief, and sometimes it is truly difficult to remain optimistic and positive. There are times when I know I’m the absolute opposite of strong and inspiring, without a doubt. But I want to be strong and I want to thrive for Lucy. So, I will cling to hope and incorporate it into my daily life this year to see what happens.

It is with HOPE that I will navigate through my grief. It is with hope that I will look forward to happier times ahead. With hope, I will do my best to send a message of inspiration to those I come into contact with regularly. With hope I will continue to nurture myself. With hope I will practice affirmations of my self-worth and my right to seek happiness. With hope, I’ll keep letting my heart be filled with Lucy’s light.

Another reason I’ve chosen hope as my guiding word is Chris and my desire to parent a sibling of Lucy. We have re-entered the realm of “Trying to Conceive”. That in and of itself is a testament of hope. We know that there will forever be a Lucy-sized void in our lives, but we want so badly to pour our love and energy into another child, to be parents to a living child. There are some feelings of guilt attached to this, because I worry that wanting this so much could in some way detract from our love of Lucy. But in my heart, I know that isn’t true. We have so much love to give, and nothing could ever diminish our love for our first born child. We will simply expand our hearts and create room for more love. One sibling could never replace another, we know that, and that isn’t our aim. We deserve the chance to add to our parenting journey; we deserve to have our lives enriched by another precious child. So, it is with hope each evening that I take my prenatal vitamin. With hope, Chris and I will enter each new month and cycle. With hope we will continue to move forward and build upon the legacy of love that started with Lucy. With hope, we will keep rebuilding our lives and open ourselves up to the possibility of happiness again.