No matter how often I tell myself to expect to come down after a period of good days, it always shocks me that I can still feel so miserable. After the baby shower I hosted recently, the whole house was clean, we were eating dinner at the kitchen table every night, and I was doing really well. Of course, it didn’t last.
I know it’s logical and normal and expected that I’ll have a hard time for months, years to come. But on some level I keep hoping that when I feel good, it’s because I’ve made great progress toward healing and things will keep getting better. Overall, yes, I do think I’m making progress and I feel much better than I did four months ago – but how foolish of me to hope there wouldn’t be any more pain.
I hate seeing babies. I don’t hate babies – I just can’t stand the anguish of having buried my baby. Of not only knowing but of feeling, over and over again, that I’ll never hold Christian or watch him grow up or send him to his room for being naughty. He’s missing from my life and it’s a huge, gaping hole. I hate how severely grief hurts. Before all of this, “grief” was just a word. Now it’s almost tangible.
On good days I barely remember what this despair is like. When it comes back, though, I wonder how I’ll ever get back to normal.