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To My Past Loves

17 Jul

I hope you’re doing well.

I hope you find whatever it is that’s missing in your life that you tried to fill with me.

I hope you can be happy. Even if it’s fleeting and rare. You deserve some happiness.

I hope I can recover.

I hope this You-shaped hole in my life will heal and that I’ll be better for having known you at all.

I hope you take from this experience the knowledge of what it feels like to be loved genuinely, completely, unconditionally, for who you are.

I hope you heal and the pain you’ve been feeling gets resolved however it needs to.

I hope you remember me.

I hope I can start forgetting parts of you.

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Broken Mama’s Blues or Dishes (originally published May 7, 2018 7:45pm)

12 Jun

I wanna tell you a story.

It’ll probably be long. Because most of my stories are. But it’ll also be true. Because most of my stories are, unless someone requests otherwise.

Once upon a time, I had a family that all lived under the same roof. We had a yard with a fig tree in the back that I was in love with and two crepe myrtles in the front that I was also in love with. The kitchen sucked. But that happens sometimes when you don’t get to build your own house. (I’m pretty sure all my kitchens will always suck because I’m a poor and will most likely never own a home. That’s neither here nor there. Anyway.) in my suck kitchen, I had nice dishes and pots and pans and cups and glasses and silverware. And I liked them. Mostly.

Then, I left. I took my children with me and I moved out.

I bought new things for a new suck kitchen.

I didn’t choose them at random and I didn’t choose them because they were the least expensive. I chose them because they were what I wanted and they symbolized the new life I was building. Because I had to build a new life. The old one was too broken to fix. So, I found a couple of sets of dishes. One was green because my children both love the color green. The other set was black. I chose it because there wasn’t another set of green and because I liked the black. It had kind of almost a retro feel. Almost. Whatever.

I set up my new place and was working to build my new life and all my hopes and dreams were there.

I had a job.

I had an apartment.

I had my car.

And I had my children.

Until, suddenly and without warning, I didn’t.

And all my hopes and dreams died horrible agonizing deaths over the next four years.

I kept the symbols of those hopes and dreams for as long as I could stand to look at them. I couldn’t bring myself to destroy them. I wanted to. There really isn’t much in this life that is quite as satisfying as breaking things. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. They looked like all my hopes and dreams looked once upon a time. They looked like the home I had so desperately wanted to build with my babies. They looked like so many dinners I had wanted to eat and share and laugh at with them. They looked like all the good things that I had tried so hard for and failed so miserably at.

So I put them into a box and gave them to you.

Your story isn’t like mine. Where you were constant and faithful, I was not. Where you tried and tried to stay and make things better, I did not.

I lost everything and almost everyone I loved. Not forever. Not all of them. Some of them are gone forever. And sometimes I’m glad of it.

But those dishes. Those stupid fucking dishes looked like all the love I could give and it still wasn’t enough to be able to keep my babies with me.

I gave them to you because they still look like all my hopes and dreams. They just look like the hopes and dreams I have for you and your babies. I gave them to you with all the hope and love and dreams I have left in me because you and your babies deserve to be as happy and safe as I tried to be.

I know that not everything has to always be about everything. But, sometimes, it just is.

An Anniversary

14 Jan

My body betrayed me. January 13, 2013, I learned my body had betrayed me. Emery was dead and there was nothing I could do but deliver his little body and weep. I labored for over 24 hours to expel his tiny corpse. And it was one of the most difficult things I have ever done.
I knew something was wrong early in my pregnancy when I kept spotting. I saw my doctor and she ordered an ultrasound to check me. She said there was something wrong with the egg sac and that I was to be on strict pelvic rest and some bed rest. No sexual stimulation whatever and to just generally rest and take care of myself. So I did. Then, I caught the flu. Twice.
At some point, I just knew that I wasn’t going to carry my child to term. I’d had a miscarriage that spring. My body had already betrayed me once. I knew in my bones that it would be some kind of miracle if I carried Emery safely to term. I hate when I’m right.
Sunday, January 12, I hurt all day long. C was working late, so I cooked dinner and invited A over. I remember my back hurting so badly that I had to lie down on the floor in the dining room. I hurt so much. And I knew something was terribly wrong.
We had dinner, A went home, and I called C and told him how much I hurt and that I would be going into my doctor’s office first thing the next morning and that I would need his help getting the kids to school. I had folded two baskets of laundry that day, so I asked for his help putting it all away. He came home. He never came back to our bedroom. He never helped me put away the laundry. I just put it all back into the baskets. It felt like admitting defeat. In a way, it was. He didn’t come to bed until 5am. I tried waking him to take the kids to school because I had hardly slept because I was in so much pain. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t wake to drive them. He wouldn’t come with me to the doctor’s office. I drove my kids to school and went back home to try to get him to come with me. Again, he refused. So, I drove myself.
A and I had made lunch plans to meet in Lake Charles. He called me later that morning to see if we were still on. I told him where I was and how I was hurting and that I was alone. He met me at the doctor’s office. He rubbed my back while I tried not to cry because of the pain. He held my hand while I waited. He came into the exam room with me and listened while I told my doctor what was happening. He looked away when my doctor told me that the ultrasound I’d had on New Year’s Eve had shown that Emery’s kidneys weren’t forming right and that she wanted to refer me to a specialist. He looked at me with horror when my doctor used the machine to listen to Emery’s heartbeat and couldn’t find it. He looked at me with sadness that mirrored my own when she took me to the ultrasound room and we saw that Emery was head-down presenting and had no heartbeat and no movement. When I looked back at him, I had to try really hard to not see the relief on him. In his eyes. In his body language. His “girlfriend” wasn’t pregnant with her finance’s baby anymore. Or, I wouldn’t be soon.
I called C to tell him that Emery was gone and that I was going straight to the hospital. He actually asked me if I wanted him to leave work and come to the hospital with me. He actually asked if I wanted him to be with me after I had begged him to drive me to the doctor that morning.
A drove me to the hospital. He waited with m while I waited for C and to be admitted. I waited for my nightmare to be over. Neither of them was ideal comfort. C was still/already seeing other people. He was texting them/her the whole time we were at the hospital. I was in love with A, who didn’t like kids and who had tried to convince me to have an abortion when he found out I was pregnant with Emery.
I was eventually admitted. I was given some pills to induce labor and put on a Pitocin drip. I don’t remember much of my time in the hospital. I only remember the pain and wishing that I was dead, too.
I labored for over 24 hours. My son’s body was delivered into a bedpan because I had to pee. I tried to position myself over the bedpan so I could go, but he was right there. I felt him and didn’t want to deliver him into the pan. I did not want my son’s body in the equivalent of a fucking toilet. But the nurse instructed me to just let go. So I unclenched my vaginal muscles and let my son’s body slide from mine and into a fucking bedpan. I still hate myself for that.
I was tired. I was broken. And my body had betrayed me and killed my child. Another child. After almost lulling me into a false sense of security, my body betrayed me, again.
I think that’s the hardest part for me to get over right now. It wasn’t C being on the phone with his other girlfriend while I struggled not to cry or throw myself out a window because I literally wanted to die. It wasn’t knowing that A was relieved that I’d lost the baby he didn’t want me to have because he didn’t want to have to share that much of my attention. It was that my body was broken and couldn’t keep a baby alive. And that I had to explain to Elijah that he wasn’t going to have a baby brother after all. I can’t tell that story yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to tell that part.
My body betrayed me.
I’ve since had surgery so that it will never happen again.
It still hurts. It’ll always hurt. I just have to learn more ways to cope.
I’m not broken. I’m a delicate little flower, but I am not some fragile thing. I can go through this and survive.

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16 Jul

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5 May

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29 Dec

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29 Dec

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