Dancing at My Desk

“I think I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown.” My husband looked at me after this left my mouth and said “Why do you think that?” And I said “I don’t know.”

The truth is I don’t think I’m about to have a nervous breakdown. But I’m not all here. I’m not present.

But I have no idea where I am. Or what’s wrong with me for that matter.

But something is wrong.

Call it depression. Call it a slump. Call it whatever. The fact is, I’m not ok.

I’ve dealt with this before. And I came out of it. Eventually. I don’t remember how exactly, but I did.

Things got better. Things got ok.

But I’m not ok. Why? Yes, I’m probably still rebounding from previous events. I’m probably not over it. And throwing myself into work isn’t helping. That has always been my fall back plan. When in doubt, work. If that doesn’t work, take a nap. If that doesn’t work, leave the house with the kids. One of those three things ALWAYS works.

Except this time. Except now.

So, now what? And to be honest, I’m not looking for an answer from others. I have a feeling this is something I have to discover for myself.

Thank God BlogHer is coming up.

Thank God I get to see my parents in a few days.

Thank God Perckle is coming with me to NYC.

But then what? I’m trying not to think about it. I’m just trying to convince myself to leave the house in a little bit to try again. To try and get my groove back. To try and feel like Angela again. To lose the sadness and the blackness inside that are, quite frankly, suffocating me.

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There are those moments in daily life that make you think “Woah, I’m actually a grown up.” There are the obvious ones like going grocery shopping, balancing your check book, paying bills and tucking your kids into bed. But then there are the not-so-obvious moments too. Here are some of mine:

1. Using a garage door opener.
2. Getting the newspaper delivered to my house
3. Buying picture frames (why this one makes me feel that way, I have no idea since I obviously did it before I “grew up” but it does)
4. Mailing birthday cards… on time.
5. Cleaning the dryer lint

What are some random things that make you feel all grown up?

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Dear Life,

It’s been a while and we really should catch up a little bit. And probably soon. Because I haven’t laid eyes on you in what feels like forever.

Ok, not REALLY forever, it just FEELS that way.

You must have gotten some new running shoes because I seem to be very behind you these days. Although you are getting craftier.

Those piles of laundry (clean and dirty) seem to appear out of nowhere and you’re so quick, I don’t even hear you leave them in the bedroom.

The dishwasher that always seems to be full… I’m sure you’re behind that too.

The litter box that always needs emptied (*that* little game you can stop ANYTIME because, quite frankly, it’s gross).

You need to stock up on coffee the next time I come around because we’re going to par-tay and catch up and I’m going to sit in your living room with my feet up for HOURS and we’re going to chat the night away. Or at least for 15 minutes.

Because really, that’s all I need everyday. 15 minutes.

15 minutes to feel like I’ve caught up to you.

15 minutes of every dish being washed and every article of clothing clean and put away.

15 minutes of quiet and peach of mind.

15 minutes of a clean house. Ok, an hour would be awesome, but I’m trying not to get greedy.

I’m just not sure when you disappeared, little life of mine. Most likely the day my beautiful girl joined the family, but I’m sure I’ve seen you since then. Haven’t I? Where do you hide when I’m in headless chicken mode? And can I come hide with you?

Anyway, Life, it’s been great chatting with you. I guess this is my 15 minutes today. I hope you’re doing well (it seems like you are) and hopefully we’ll catch up again soon.

Sincerely,

Angela

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Mourning, grieving, dealing with loss… it’s all the same thing.

And, quite frankly, it sucks.

Getting ready to celebrate a new life and then in one day, everything changes. You find out there is no heartbeat. That the baby is gone. That you will not be buying little clothes or reassembling a crib. That you will have to make dozens of phone calls to tell everyone the bad news.

That you will be leaving the hospital without a baby in your arms.

For the fourth time.

I’ve never been particularly “good” at mourning. I go through all the stages:

1. Shock and Denial (this can’t be happening to us… again).

2. Pain and Guilt (I thought I did everything right, why us?)

3. Anger and Bargaining (Please, let them be wrong. Please let them be wrong.)

4. Depression (Inevitably, this hits me HARD)

5. The Upward Turn (Maybe, just maybe we’ll get through this)

6. Reconstruction and working through (Ok, what’s next? What can I deal with now?)

7. Acceptance and Hope (We’re going to be ok. We are ok.)

I go through them almost like going through checkpoints on a map. I can genuinely “feel” when I’m going through another stage.

Except this time was different. Because the very next day, I had to start through them again.

My beloved grandfather passed away the day after we got the news. He walked into heaven with my baby in his arms.

It forced me to be with family. It was something I needed although I’ll admit it wasn’t something I really wanted. It forced me to help others, to get out of my own head.

It forced me to deal with it all. At once.

And I’m ok. At least I’m getting there. There is another piece of my heart missing. Four little pieces of what could have been that are somewhere else.

And I take comfort in the little things.

My two healthy children’s laughter.

My husband’s strong hugs.

My work to keep pushing me forward.

A good book I can’t put down.

A good cup of coffee with friends.

And the happiness to know that one day, I will have answers. That one day, I’ll hold those four little ones and understand.

I know without a doubt that the baby was a girl. I knew it from the moment we found out. And we have named her Kerry. Because I don’t like to call my children “it.” Because they deserve to be named. Because I need it for closure. For acceptance.

For the memory of what could have been.

We are moving on. Slowly but surely, we are moving on.

And I’m aware of… well… everything. Hypersensitive to the world around me. To the signs of new life everywhere.

And I don’t want to miss it.

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