I am running from these realities as they chase my every move. That is not your life, they tell me. That is not your future. That is what you expected, what you could have had, what everyone else has... That is not for you.
I know there are so many women who face this journey with grace, strength, Faith. I am not one of them. Not because I choose not to be. Who wouldn't rather be a pillar of strength or an inspiration to others? No, I am not one of them because I am hurting, in a way that never leaves, that never allows something beautiful to blossom from all this heartache.
I am hurting when I smile and I tell you “I’m Okay” because I am so sick of being that person, that burden, that disappointment who can’t get her act together. I am hurting when I congratulate you on your pregnancy, or new child. I am hurting when I see couples my age, and think how lucky they are to still be kids with their whole lives ahead of them, but can no longer relate to that naive optimism.
I hate being 29 and feeling like my book has been written. I hate seeing pictures of myself and doing double takes because I don’t recognize myself. I hate that I cannot help but to wallow and question and feel anger at what has happened. I am suffocating beneath memories of the better person that I used to be, of those last happy moments before she was born, of the memories of her life, of the choices, of what she lived through, of all the living she never got to do, of watching her leave, of feeling so much guilt, of wanting to return to normal, of wishing for a baby, of being diagnosed with SIF, of all of it.
I am pathetic. I am stagnant. I am grieving.