Oh dear. No blogging.
We’ve actually been having a good time, if you count charging around like loons a good time. I could write lots of posts filled with interesting stuff. I will do. But not here. If you read my other blog (and thank you to the people who do and commented, I really appreciated it) you’ll know I dragged of a load of bile from the bottom of the last post and put it somewhere where it wouldn’t spoil things.
The truth is I haven’t been so great this last week. I’m full of hormones resulting in extreme crabbiness, headaches and a tense back that made me want to kill people. Various people have conspired to irritate me beyond what was, on reflection, reasonable. On the other hand, Those People were being really annoying and I seem to have very low tolerance for that sort of thing now. I’m not so good at seeing the other side as I was. Not so good at all.
I think I have a case of the baby blues. I wouldn’t go as far as calling it pnd, not yet. I think after all this time I’ve got enough self awareness to know that I just don’t do well, physically, after I have a baby. 5 months or so in, I hit a bump, a chemical, hormonal bump and my moods take a dive, no matter how happy or lucky I am. I know this well enough to think that if I sleep well, eat right, take some vitamins, get some sun (ha) and breathe a little, it should be okay.
I’m trying to analyse what is happening and hoping it will stop the spiral. I’m perfectly capable of very self destructive and, if this week is anything to go by, being horrid and painful to live with too.
I’m quite lonely, I think. The world has moved on, even the people in this house have moved on. I’m lonely in my grief, missing Freddie badly, hurting for his space and the fact that that god awful thing happened to him and to us and that time has passed. I miss hurting for him so badly. I miss (this sounds terrible) the right to have sympathy. I see people glaze over if I mention him now. Even here. He’s a taboo. He’s like talking about the bad credit card debt or the black mould on the wall. Everyone wants to pretend it isn’t there. Everyone wants it to be okay now. Move on, move on. Everyone thinks it is not so bad, now I have Bene instead.
I’m angry. I’m angry that so much happened and there is no one to blame for it. I’m angry the universe chose us. I’m angry time has passed and I hurt less. I’m angry, unspeakably angry, with people who let me down while I was pregnant, after Freddie, since Bene. I’m hoarding every slight and every tight lipped non acknowledgement of Freddie, every thing that ensured life could be harder. I can’t let go, I don’t want to let go. Give me a reason to be angry at your peril. There are no second chances with me now, I don’t forgive. If you fuck with me, lie to me, try to pretend my son doesn’t matter, fawn insincerely, mess with our safety, there is no getting back.
This means lots of things. One of them is that I’m not very nice. One of them is that I’m full of rage, patted down in a plastic face. You don’t want to see behind the mask. You really don’t. It’s unrelenting.
I don’t know what to do about that. I suppose I could see a counsellor. I think that’s fairly pointless. I could keep shedding people but I might end up quite lonely. I could hope time lets it fade. To be honest though, I’m not seeing that. I used to be rubbish at holding grudges; oh… Now I’m good. Now I’m good. I’ve got a whole tirade waiting for the day I meet whoever is in charge of the universe for messing with me and the people I love.
I haven’t looked back yet. Just occasionally a flicker of a moment of Bene’s pregnancy and last minute before being born make it to my consciousness but I don’t look. I don’t want to look. Nothing to relish there. Nothing from Freddie’s death to after we were home with Bene to think of fondly. Not because of anything nasty, just because it was all so awful, so painful, so dreadfully, terrifying grim that I can’t. He wasn’t born. There is no birth story. It was an amiable well handled birth but I go straight in my head from the day before to the recovery room. I don’t want to examine the fear. I don’t want to look. It feels, that whole pregnancy, ttc, birth, like gawping at a car crash. I hae no idea how we got through it.
Sometimes I see people dealing with loss, with grief and making albums, making memory books, treasuring things, filing ordering, organising and I realise how odd my reaction to Freddie’s death has been. His ashes are not buried. His photos are uncounted and unordered. I have not written my memories of him. I have barely googled. I have not tried to find out. I have not said goodbye or settled his affairs. I do not have his things gently sorted. We do not have a method for dealing with his loss. He’s an overfilled box, a pandora box and I’m sat on its heaving mass, pressing down the lid and singing loudly to cover the sound that is escaping. I haven’t done what is normal even by baby loss standards. No cute grave, no memorial garden, I didn’t even choose an outfit for him to be in. I looked at a photo of him today and had never seen it properly before. I ought to know them by heart.
But I did love him. I really did. I’m just not ready to do the goodbye things yet. I keep thinking perhaps it’s a mistake. Maybe.
I suppose this is a come down. The adrenalin rush of Bene’s pregnancy and new life had to end sometime. Now is normal, every day. The good times. I am so lucky. Well cared for, loved and adored and looked after by a wonderful man, a real partner. He does it all. I do nothing. I’m still bumbling around in a haze of barely functioning. I can’t plan, I can’t multitask. I can do one thing, very well, at a time. But not lots, not like I used to. I get furious if I get let down, by him (for being nothing worse than more able to move on than me), by naughty girls breaking rules, people just being thoughtless and crap and forgetting actually we are people.
I probably need to go out and fire a rifle at tin cans or something. Grab myself by the collar and remind myself I am lucky and where I wanted to be six years ago, three years ago, 6 months ago.
But where you wanted to be with a dead little boy tucked fading in the past and half forgotten and your whole life force choked out of you is a very different thing. It’s not quite what I hoped. Not the Bene bit, just the learning to live this new life. Again.
And oh, I could tell the world a thing or two if I had a moment to do so. It needs to back right fucking off and leave us alone now. That 0-60 reaction of fear and pain, mine, others. I wish I were the better person for having been through it. I wish it made me able to say the right things, be good at being a friend. I am frightened to find it doesn’t extrapolate to other situation people are in. I am still, STILL crap at being a good friend. Too inadequate. And all full of rage and hate and unforgiveness. Worryingly devoid of emotion for myself, utterly full of it for people I love. Terrified I will get the supporting wrong when they got it right. And hideously aware that is a whole ‘all about me’ thing. Except it isn’t. I want nothing more than to fix. What do you do if you are a fixer, once you are the living fucking proof that bad things do happen and it doesn’t always work out right?
In short, i am neither me nor anyone I ever thought I was.
But most of this is hormones. Some of it is a busy week. Some of it is the appointment yesterday to organise being sterilised. I thought when I went back to that place it would be where Bene was born now. But no, it was very forcefully the place where I have walked out without the pregnancy I walked in with and no baby to show for it. Yesterday, kindly as it was, featured a room I have sat in pregnant with two little boys, a nurse met under bitter circumstances once before, conversations where my notes from my doctor said ‘has five children’.
This, I have to remind myself, is the good time. We are lucky. I am lucky. This will pass. It is only hormones. Not pretty, not eloquent, no clever metaphors. Full of bile. Not being grateful or dignified or particularly likeable.
There might be a metaphor in that photo. If there is, there wasn’t one when I took it, or even put it here. But I possibly see one, even so.