My anger hasn’t been lying dormant by any means, but recently it has been making its way to the surface in bouts of explosions and eruptions. And today is no different. Can I make excuses for myself?
I’m exhausted. Overwhelmed. Spent. Tired of trying. Tired of going. Tired of taking one step after another after another after another. Done with pretending to be content. Done with “I’m doing fine.” Done with putting on a fake smile and muscling through the day.
Long exhausted from the daily tasks of life, while grief lurks at the surface, and the anxiety of pregnancy after loss plagues my every waking moment. And there are many...because I can’t sleep.
Long spent on trying to keep up with the house, the kids, the laundry, my job while my mind furiously races with thoughts of loss and fear over the future.
I’m frustrated with my body. It hurts. I’m expanding and growing and stretching, and I feel the heaviness of my growing abdomen with the heaviness of my broken heart. I’m weighed down. Fettered. I can’t find space. Or movement. Or freedom. I want to be alone, but I don’t. Nothing feels safe. My mind isolates me anyhow...I feel so alone. So misunderstood. So out of control. I’m on an island.
I’ve spent the last two years pregnant, and while I’m thankful for that, I’m pissed. My daughter should be here.
I’m tired of looking at an empty crib. I’m tired of seeing other babies her age. I’m tired of people asking me how I’m feeling. (How do I possibly even answer that question?)
I’m angry that my body hurts...it shouldn’t be growing another life. It should be nurturing the baby I carried still a year ago.
As this pregnancy progresses, and the pressure builds physically, my body wants to be delivered. Then my mind takes me back to how ready I was for her. “Two more weeks!” I could hardly believe it. Then the next day, it was all over. It makes me want to scream. It feels so unjust. Why did my body change and expand and grow only to lose and foster death in the end? My own body is a trigger.
I can’t make my thoughts stop. The constant worry. The constant wonder. I want the end to be here. I want to know the answer. I want to see the outcome.
My fatigue is playing tricks on me. I can’t find a stable ground. And I just want to fast forward. But at the same time, I’m terrified of what the future might hold.
Could I lose again in nine weeks or less? What if this all ends so terribly? What will I do?
I’m finding these thoughts bring up so much anger at God...that is clearly still there. How can I trust? How can I hope? How can I believe?
Between the vast array of emotions, constant, never ending thoughts and anxiety, and complete exhaustion...I just don’t know how to think. Or how to feel. Or how to believe.
My body moves. My mind goes. I complete tasks with no heart. I do what needs to be done.
But on the inside, I’m dry. Weary. Parched. Ready to unleash everything within until a painful explosion takes place, and I completely fall apart.
I hate the way life looks right now. I want to be out of this valley. Freed from this wasteland of despair.
I want my baby. I want her here. I’m tired of missing her and wishing things were different.
Where do I place this frustration? Where do I release what is within? When will the explosions cease, and I find myself stable, secure, and at peace?