The Rage that Lives in my Grief

Today was pretty much like every other empty day. Wake up late, go downstairs, grab a drink, sit on the couch to fill the hours with electronic distractions. There is nothing else. There is no happiness, no change, no little boy smiling up at me anymore. Maybe it’s partly due to the snow this week, but I’ve been feeling extra dark and lethargic lately. I’m restless and bored, but exhausted by both pregnancy and grief. It’s getting to me. It’s really getting to me. I was kind of looking forward to a bit of reprieve tonight when I’d actually leave the house for my third grief group session. I made the mistake of reading an article about child loss before getting ready to go. The page was loading so impossibly fucking slow, then it decided to go off course and, with my emotions already crumbling, I kind of lost it. I was in the shower and lost it. Crying, throwing bottles of conditioner and body wash to the end of the tub as they fell on me, vomiting, because apparently that’s what I do now – vomit when I cry. 

I’m angry. I am so angry that this is my life now. I’m angry that I now read articles about losing a child or baby, I’m angry that I know so much about SIDS, I’m angry that I have to know all the amazing people in my grief group. I am so unbelievably angry that my baby boy is gone and I can never get him back and I have to live with all of this pain. It’s just unfair. It is so fucking unfair that he is gone and I have to stay here and live way too long a life. Don’t get me wrong, I am so grateful to have another son growing inside me and I cannot wait to hold him in my arms, but… I want Daxon, too. I never would’ve thought having both my children alive would be too much to ask. There are so many days, I just want to scream and break and stab everything in sight in a complete animalistic rage. Why is this my life?! Why??! I am so much better a mother than those who continue using drugs or abandon their children in the mall or sell them to traffickers. Daxon had such a great life ahead of him, not one of pain and neglect, but so completely full of love and family. He didn’t need to be spared from any terrible fate, he needed to be my son, alive and growing and learning with me. 

At group, I didn’t say a word, except when a couple people asked if I was okay. I just said that I was having a bad day, all the while, holding back tears that were screaming to be freed, my head pounding with their insistence. I cried on the way home. I cried on my knees in front of the open pantry because I knew I had to eat for the baby’s sake, but nothing was appealing to me. All I wanted was for my boyfriend to talk to me about it, but he didn’t say a word, as usual. He tries to comfort me just by holding me, but I need to talk about this. Often, I’ll try to talk about it while in the midst of tears and he sits there in silence, leaving me feeling almost abandoned in my grief. Alone. So fucking alone. I can’t wait until the day I die. Then I’ll never be alone again. 

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