Sad and tired

I am just so sad today.  So tired of doing this.  I am tired of not having Sidney here, of having to get through each day without him.  Yesterday, I volunteered with the art program I have been helping out at at a summer camp.  Almost right away, I noticed that one of the counselors there had her baby boy with her–he looked to be about 9 months old, so older than Sidney would have been.  But my arms started aching for him. I thought about how just four months ago, I would have confidently gone up to the mom, and known how to introduce myself, how to talk to her, proud of my growing belly with Sidney inside.  And now my identity is baby loss mom, and I don’t want that identity. And thinking about how this is who I am now really upset me. I held it together for a while, but then towards the end of the day, when we were cleaning up, she brought him into the art room, and everyone started oohing and aahing.  Then the baby started crying.  And then I started crying.  I asked the volunteer coordinator if I could leave, saying it was hard for me to be around the baby, and then ran out the door.  On the way home, the air pressure light for my tires came on in my car, and I just fully lost it, crying hysterically until I got home.  My husband put more air in my tires, but I probably should get them checked, to see if one has a slow leak.  But it was too much.  Today, I went back to the camp, prepared to see the baby, but still so so sad.  And I feel old, surrounded by volunteers who are all in college or high school.

In a few minutes, our landlord is coming over with an appraiser because he wants to get his loan re-financed.  The last time he was here, I was in early labor.  My husband included him on the email saying what happened, and he never wrote back, never mentioned anything.  We only heard from him because he wants to come by.  And I don’t want to see him.  To see someone I saw so close to Sidney’s death, when I was in pain from my contractions, excited, trying to  lay down for a little while labor progressed. And angry that he never even said something as basic as ‘my condolences’ or ‘there are no words’.  I may try to take a walk when he is here, but it hot, and he is never on time and I don’t like feeling like I have to hide.  But I also don’t want to deal with him, to be visible.  I don’t want to be visible at all.  People who know what happened know we want another child. And they will wonder if I am pregnant, but really I am just fat. I don’t want people watching me.  I don’t want people speculating about me.  Even friends, judging, commenting on my progress through grief, telling me I seem to be doing better, or sometimes saying they are worried about my sadness.  I don’t want to be watched.  I want to be understood, embraced, and carried.

In the past, when I’ve been anxious or overwhelmed, the weekend can be a break from it, a time I don’t think about whatever it is I am worrying over, and just enjoy time with my family.  But there is no break from this.  Grieving happens 24 hours a day.  I even wake-up sometimes with aching shoulders, neck and jaw (which is where I carry my tension), tensing up even in my sleep.  Because Sidney is gone.  There is no break from that.  And it is absolute torture.

Advertisements

7 thoughts on “Sad and tired

  1. Oh friend. This post breaks my heart. I can completely relate to all of this, sadly. From seeing a child close to your child’s age, the “too much” feeling, and especially seeing people again who you saw close to your child’s entrance into this world. It’s all too much, it really really is. I also hate the comments, however innocent they might be, from people saying “you’re doing better” (I’m not), or “you seem more upset lately” (yep, the reality of my life without my child is setting in, sorry to inconvenience you with my sadness). My husband told me the other day that I “seemed” better– I looked right at him and said “you are not with me 24/7”. I didn’t mean to come off as a grump to him, I just wanted to tell him…no. I’m not better. I never will be better.

    ((hugs)) I’m just an email away if you want to talk.

    also, as for your landlord…fuck him.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. My heart hurts for you because I can feel your pain. Sometimes I felt like just running until I couldn’t run anymore or screaming until I became hoarse. Anything to momentarily take the pain away. I wish people wouldn’t comment on the status of your grief because that implies there is a time limit on it or something. It’s grief you will have the bad days, the horrible days and ones that are brighter. Unfortunately people think by commenting on those days that it’s what we want to hear when it’s not. People would always tell me how strong I was and I wanted to scream at them and tell them maybe I didn’t want to be strong. I’ll be thinking of you friend and sending love and light your way ❤️❤️

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I’m so sorry for the hard day. Big hugs. ❤

    I feel like I now going longer between the crashes, but I crash harder if that makes sense. Like, the triggers hit me harder now than a few months ago, the moments of despair hit harder… Maybe it's because I have "pockets" of time where I come up for fresh air, and when the next wave of grief hits it just seems harder because I had that brief moment of peace.

    I don't know if I'm explaining that right.

    Liked by 2 people

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s