I’m building up the courage to write about the miscarriage. Miscarriages.
And I’m a little surprised that I have to build it at all.
It’s a shame that the arrival of new wonderful things in life, a baby boy for instance… don’t just erase the lingering traces of old heartbreaks.
The fragments that led me here… To the place where I’m realizing I still have to sort through these feelings…
The dream I had, the details of which are unrealistic, of course. But left me with the sickening feeling that I’d lost everything I had built. My life, my family, my sense of peace and joy and wonder.
The electric bill, that I’ve felt like I should keep under my name. Just in case.
Pieces of a talk by David Whyte. About how much potential love and adoration there is in the face of a family you’ve created, and how terrifying it is to give in to that love because what would you do if you lost it.
The strange hesitation, something like nervousness… like it’s the very first time, even though it’s obviously not.
So I’ve been biding my time…
Not biding really…
Trying to gather strength to dive into my own muffled pain.
Part of me accusing myself of melodrama. But I know I’m entitled to the traces of pain. As much as I’m entitled to the sifting. As much as I’m entitled to the releasing of it.
There’s a part of me that really wants to tell my story with my own voice. Right here. It just feels like I could own it more that way. Bare a little more soul. And leave less room for editing. But I don’t have the equipment to do that. So I may just buck up and write it all out.
Just know that I want to do this. I’m just a little scared.