The Monster Under Your Bed

Baby loss grief brings up lots of things in your mind, and for me, it brings out a side of me I really don’t like and spend a lot of time trying to fight back, change and stuff back into a box. But I guess that’s something about grief, it’s not rational.  No matter how rational you want to be, there are some things you just don’t have control over.

For me, it is judgement. I try very hard not to be a judgmental person. I try, but I don’t always succeed.  It is a constant work in progress.  I try to be tolerant and accepting.  But it is hard. So so hard.

And with all of that, my internal dialogue works overtime. When reading, or in conversations, or visiting lots of different places on the web I am confronted.  I feel evil for some of the things I think.  I scream at my own thoughts, and wonder how it is that I can think or feel like that.  And then I remember… My baby died.

—–

“I had a miscarriage” That’s nothing, I had a stillbirth. Full term at that. So there.

“My baby died when they were 3 months old” At least you got to hear them breath, and have photos people are not afraid to look at.

“I gave them a bottle” Buck up and give your babe your boob.  I’d do anything to feed my baby. I’d do anything to feed YOUR baby.

“The car seat is so expensive” Cheaper than a freaking funeral.

“I let them cry for 30 mins, they are fine” Fucking pick your baby up. Hug them, hold them. I could do it for you if you like. If your baby is too much trouble I’ll take them off your hands.

“She is a birthing Goddess!” Yes. Her baby did not die.  She pushed it out and it survived.  I could not even have mine cut out and it survive.  I’ll never be the Goddess, I am toxic! (oh how the Goddess has come to bite me on the arse!)

—–

See.  Monster.

I AM A MONSTER!  How can a woman feel like that?  How can a mother, who has gone through those exhaustive nights, held her own alive baby (who is now a beautiful young girl) think like that about other mothers?

I have held babies.  I have held NEW babies.  I love to hold and cuddle babies and enjoy them for who they are, the wonderful beings they are.  But birth is so hard for me to palate.  Photos shake me, deep within my heart to a point I cannot breath.  Where did this woman come from?  THIS IS NOT ME!

Well, perhaps it is.  The new me.  The new me who has no control over where her brain runs to.  The new me who wants to throw up with both terror and joy at the announcement of new babies.  The me who has nightmares of other peoples babies dying because I touched them.  Because I am cursed.  The nightmares of babies dying because I looked at them, because I dared mentioned to a mother that a baby died in labour, because I am the statistic they doctor refers to when they say “That’s a really low chance”.  The visions of one hundred new born babies, soft and squishy and in that floppy new-to-the-world state, hovering above my head and one by one them stopping breathing, hearts turning black, all because they had something to do with me.

I am the monster under the bed.

Will it ever go away?  Will my mind ever return to a place where I do not have to have my own internal war over what I feel and what I experience?  Will the anxiety ever leave? Will I ever separate the rational with the irrational?

Will there ever be a time where I can listen to a mother’s commentary about their baby and not scream at them in my head because their baby made it and mine didn’t?

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