So, I stopped writing. Not just for this blog. But all together. Truth be told, over the past few years I wrote five different blogs and two books. Most of which existed only on my desktop. But I enjoy writing. Its my favourite hobby and has been for at least 20 years. I stopped though. I stopped painting, drawing and sketching also. Max takes up most of my time, but even my little free time I have – I stopped.
I stopped a little over year ago after my first miscarriage. It’s been a year. Fuck. It’s also been 8 months since my second miscarriage. It’s been a year since I was that Melissa that I knew my whole life. I feel like normal me is never coming back and that stresses me out every day.
Everyone says it gets easier. They’re right. But not easy enough. Not like how it used to be.
I’m defined by those two events. I used to be defined by who I felt I was and the awesome things I did, this sarcastic funny social planning super dork with annoying organizational skills who was always relaxed with an IDGAF attitude about everything – with not a care in the world. I mean, of course I had things to care about, but nothing that defined who I was or that I focused on all that much.
These two events though, they shape what defines me now. Because I can’t escape them, nor do I want to. They happened and they’re there, and they’ll always be there. Even on the best of days, they still happened.
I can’t say the M word. I keep calling it “that baby stuff that happened. ” I’m impressed with myself for mentioning it above in this post.
It’s a weird feeling to be so happy with your life, but with this underlying horribleness there at random times. I love my project management job, I love my real estate job, I love that I’ve gotten to spend every day all day with max for almost 3 years, I love Brian, I love my house. I love my amazing friends. But there’s always that underlying stuff that creeps up every now and then that’s like “ya you’re life is amazing and I’m so glad you’re happy but don’t forget about what happened last year”. The voice moderate resembles Kanye West as I read this back. Which will now make it a little but more palatable moving forward.
I haven’t slept since the second one. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I have the same nightmare about it every single night. And I’m exhausted.
Everyone says it gets easier. It does. But it’s not easy enough.
It’s been a year. I need to get my shit together. I’m going to start writing again. I don’t know if it’ll be the same. I’m pushing myself to write again. I don’t want to write. I’m forcing myself do it. I’ve been sick all
day week (I wrote this a week ago and keep revisiting it because i’m too scared to post it.) thinking about having to post this, to finish writing it, to share it, to do anything to it. I don’t want to do it. I’m not brave enough. I don’t want people to know. My heart rate is 134bpm right now as I read this back, knowing that I have to post it soon. I’m sweating and I want to throw up.
I sound depressed. I’m not. Life is great and I’m happy all he time, I’m probably annoyingly happy. I just hate talking or thinking about this.
I carry this secret around. I’m the most open person on the planet (as proven by an old blog post open where I explain the horrifying grotesque details of childbirth.) But this… This I’ve kept a secret from everyone except a few close friends.
And that secret made me stop writing. I can’t write a blog post but not write about those events, because they’re there whether I write about them or not. So I don’t write. Because I don’t want to write about them. I don’t know why I didn’t want to. I did want to. I just also didn’t want to. I don’t want people to know. Why don’t I want people to know? I don’t know. I don’t want the sympathy, I don’t want people to think about it when they think about me, I’m ashamed about it, it’s not anyone’s business, and I can think of a hundred more reasons. I don’t know… I just don’t like the thought of people knowing about it.
No one talks about it. Until it happens. Then you find out it’s happened to the majority of people you know. And you feel so much better knowing that other people know what you’re going thought and that they’re fine so you’ll be fine.
And I hate that I added myself to the list of people that don’t talk about it. Because if everyone talked about it, it would be less shit. It would still be shit but a fraction of a tiny percent less. So I don’t know why I didn’t talk about it. I’m begrudgingly writing this. It’s been a year and I need to get my shit together.
They say it gets easier. And it does. I don’t cry about it anymore. That’s a lie I’m crying right now and every now and then. But typically I don’t anymore. I’m talking to friends again. I can see pregnant people again and not care. Ultrasound photos still kill me. New babies I can handle though, it’s weird.
It gets easier. It’s never the same as it was, but it gets easier. If you’re going though it, as corny as it is… you aren’t alone. And it does help to hear that. And don’t stay silent. And it will get easier. And I KNOW you don’t want to hear that because you don’t want it to get easier because it’s horrible and unimaginable and why and how should it get easier. But in a few months you’ll remember thinking about me telling you it’ll get easier and you’ll realize all of the sudden that it did get easier. And you’ll feel relief at the tiniest little weight being lifted off even if just for a moment realizing that it isn’t as bad now as it was when it happened. And that’s what easier is. And every day a little bit more. And some days a little bit less. And it will be one of the things that defines you. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it’s here now and it happened and we continue our lives and try to find normalcy in what is now the new normal. It does get easier. It’s not the same, but it’s easier.