This morning we talked about how scared we are. How simply utterly terrified. How Ray sometimes feels that we're setting ourselves up for more pain and even wonders if it's all worth it. How sex is different now, how we need it to be about making love as well as, and possibly even more than about making a baby.
I finally admitted to Ray and to myself that in the back of my mind I wonder what I did wrong. Why didn't I know that George had died inside me? Sometimes I feel that I failed to keep my son safe. I failed as a mother before I got a chance to be a mother.
I've skirted around these thoughts since we lost him and even more so since the scan that told us that the evilfibroids might not have been the cause. I
know it wasn't my fault. I
know I couldn't have done anything to save him,
I know I shouldn't torture myself. But the thoughts still creep in, blocking out the light every so often.
And there is a lot of light these days.
I ended up sobbing, almost hyperventilating. "I can't turn the bloody tap off". It frustrates me that I can't talk about it all without crying. It feels like a barrier that can and does stop me from expressing myself clearly. I don't mind crying one little bit, it's a normal natural part of grieving. I would just like to be able to talk about things without the tears getting in the way. I don't want to upset Ray with my tears so I'll just keep quiet and what? Stew? Hmmm, probably not the best idea. This is the main reason for me deciding to try counselling again. I need strategies.
I failed.
All through my life I've wrestled with feelings of inadequacy. I was the chubby child who entered puberty just a little too early, who became a little too self-conscious, who didn't get the great boyfriend. The comfort eater who grew a layer of fat to protect herself from the world. The overweight adult who would rather let herself be treated badly so as not to be alone. The adult paralysed by fear of what others might think.
I am not that person any more.
I haven't been that person for a long time. And it wasn't Ray that saved me, although he has made my life wonderful. I saved myself. I sorted my head out myself. I no longer care what people think of me. Like me or don't, either is fine. I accepted who I am, the positive and the negative. The easy going relaxed me and the uptight self-conscious scared me.
I like me. And the me that I like is loved. Genuinely, positively, unconditionally loved. By Ray
and by me.
You might want to call me a late bloomer!
But every so often, at vulnerable moments, (and they don't come much more vulnerable than losing a baby) the old me pops up. Here have another biscuit, it'll make you feel better. Bury your feelings, don't tell anyone. You're not good enough, don't even try. Fortunately the old me doesn't really fit any more and doesn't get to hang around too long.
Of course there is the
all-new new me now. The mother to a dead child who will go to lunch with her own mother tomorrow and celebrate the mothers day she should have been celebrating with George and Ray. And who will genuinely smile and laugh whilst keeping a small tight heavy grieflet of pain tucked out of view, because my mother deserves to be put first for the day.
Who has no answers and is ok with that.
Ray says that love is like a stone that you have to keep polishing. We did some serious heavy duty polishing today.
