Last night was the full strawberry moon and I craved a hot bath. I didn’t realize until after soaking for an hour, reading The Secret History, that I was probably looking for some sort of support or self-care, some sort of cleanse.
It’s been a rough few weeks, as we are all feeling. On Saturday, H asked if the crazy hours I’m putting into work are just the way my job is now, or if it’ll level out. It should level out, I told him, but not for the next 2 months or so, early August.
Early August was my due date when I found out I was pregnant.
This keeps looping through my mind as the crap piles up: work chaos, long hours, (very) early morning meetings, a friend dealing with a bout of depression, another with her own work chaos, our new car getting rear-ended 2+ weeks ago and still not repaired, schedules getting messed up, H teaching more classes than humanly possible, a friend visiting this weekend, and another big trip less than 10 days away.
I flip between anger and sadness and relief that I am not pregnant right now – though I’m sure that perspective and my boundaries with everything would be different if I was still. It’s comforting to think that the timing was wrong all along. That the right timing will involve enough space to enjoy the experience. To savor it even.
But don’t say that to me. Don’t tell me that the time will be right some other time, some made-up-future-time that you can not accurately predict and I am not sure I’ll ever experience.
None of it makes it any easier to hear excited gasps of friends sharing their news, see Instagram photos of “bump #2”, read blog posts of two-lined pink tests resulting in twirling around the house.
Most of my days go by normally – I drink a bit more coffee than I used to, but I also have a shit ton more work than I used to. I write, shoot photos, go climbing. Some days, I am trying to honor the person I am now, the person I’ve become from all of this. Some days, I accomplish nothing.
It’s so hard. And it’s hard to explain in a way that makes sense to anyone who has not been here.
It’s “the swings” of grief, as my friend LA calls it. One minute you’re totally fine and the next you’re heaving sobbing as if the loss occurred that very moment. The swings can not be plotted on a graph, predicted, tracked or avoided. They come when they come and you just have to ride it, the way people compare grief to bobbing in waves, letting them take you up and down so they don’t pull you under. Knowing to surrender when that flood hits.
My friend T sent me the custom bracelet above in a care package after reading about my miscarriage. The quote is how I ended this post. My own words on a piece of jewelry. It brings together how I’m through it but not over it, how I wear bracelets to buoy me, and even how I’m taking myself more seriously as a writer. It is one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received.
Most days I’m better than OK; I am in love with my life and enjoying it. I know I’ve survived, and that I will continue to do so. I know the swings will hit and I’ll have to ride them out, stumbling through them like a dark fog until the mist dissipates.
This is part of my life now, part of who I am, and whatever the overlap of dates means, whatever the divine timing is, I’m riding the swings, bracelets and all.