Monday, September 6, 2010

Pants for the mentally ill

Today I plan on leaving the house again. I have to say again, and make it seem like a bigger deal than it is. It's not a big deal to me if I stay in my pajamas all day everyday. I think people THINK it's a big deal. Like wearing real pants will make everything OKAY. I think if they see me wearing real pants makeup jewelry perfume it makes THEM more comfortable. Makes them think less "dead baby" and more "normal life"

But the thing, and yeah there is always a thing with me, the thing is is that there IS no normal.There is no Okay. There is only before Leta and after Leta. Before death and after. Hers or mine? Both of ours? It's only before I was faced with words like ashes, and coffin and funeral.And after. Faced only with words like dead and lost and empty.

So back to the leaving of the house, I plan on leaving. That requires a shower, and makeup and clean clothes finding. That requires enough time and energy to plaster this fake smile on my face and try out my fake laughter. I have to make you feel comfortable. And think less crazy. Think I'm less crazy than I really am.

The leaving thing, the thing with leaving the house is that there are literally babies EVERYWHERE.There are the hugely pregnant teenage mothers, the pregnant ones smoking, the pregnant ones screaming at their little tiny children. Taking for granted. And the thought that I have, this thought that eats me up and makes me a likely candidate for the mental hospital is "I hope your baby doesn't die" I told that to Jim once, and I think he was appalled. Is it really that appalling? I do hope their baby doesn't die, but it's more a selfish victim like thought. It's not all apples and sweetness. Not at all.Say it in your most bitter victimized voice. I hope your baby doesn't die. Mine died, and I am a good mother and don't smokedrinkdodrugs or any of the other hideously inappropriate things that parents do sometimes. I hope your baby doesn't die. I hope mine didn't. Wouldn't shouldn't have died. I did things by the book. This baby died. Mine died.Yours didn't. won't I hope. I hope you know how lucky you are. I hope you get it. Don't take for granted. I say that, and I sit here and probably take for granted the fact that I have these three souls here that are in my care, my guardianship, that I am responsible for.I am not whole so I cannot wholly give of myself to these guys, and that is what they deserve, a whole mother. I am a damaged broken mother with a tear stained face. I am a mopey weepy mother listening to sad songs to express how I feel because I cannot say to the depths of my soul how sad and broken I really am.

I will get dressed because I have to. Life goes on for everyone else, not me. My life is stuck, stalled on Feb. 21st. My life as I knew it ended then, and I cannot will not have not made peace with this new life, this life I didn't want didn't ask for should not have. Why me why not me>?

So dressed. And I'll see all these happy disgusting pregnant women, and families with their new baby. I am not at the point I can feel happy for them. Selfish. I hope your baby doesn't die. It's this cycle, this endless self pity that isn't who I was but is certainly who I am as of now.

I know that someday I will look back and probably be ashamed of my inner thoughts, behavior but right now, when everything is dark and tastes of bitterness and resentment, I will get dressed, and pretend. Pretend to be whole and me and the person everyone wants me to be thinks I should be.

But frankly, if you look at my eyes you will see that I am the mother of a dead baby. And listen to my manic laughter, and know that it is for show, fake. My smile robotic and pasted on.

My heart and soul are black and broken and burnt.

That is what I am today. There is such rawness and bitterness inside me that should not be there.I am grappling with the fact that I lost my baby failed her somehow and grappling with these awful selfish feelings of victimization and desperation.

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