Blood sprints though my veins
crippling me in place
my heart lets me know it’s in my chest
I thought I had been heartbroken before
This time is different
I want him back
I have never wanted them back
I’d imagine there are harder things to write about.
I am Christian. I am 31 years old. I am a single woman. I have a career that I love. In the 2nd grade, I was molested. I pretended I was a survivor. I thought I was over it. There have been amazing times in my life. There have been times so unbearable, it was hard to breath.
One month ago today, I had a miscarriage. There has been a war going on inside of me every since. Since June 21st, I’ve cried every day. I wake up with knots in my stomach. By noon, my head is pounding so hard all I can do is begin counting down until I’m able to get back in bed. I’ve cried for hours on end with no specific trigger. For a month, this war has been going on in me. I suppose it is grief. Or guilt. Or mourning. Or some painful combination of each of those things. Privately I’ve swallowed every thought, every feeling and every experience. I’ve tried to learn the lessons everyone says are taught in difficult times like these.
I’ve wanted people to hold my hand. I hadn’t been willing to accept that no one wants to talk about babies who weren’t born and women who failed (or gave up) at birthing them. They say, “It’s God’s will,” as if God’s will doesn’t hurt sometimes. Then they say, “One in three pregnancies end in miscarriage,” as if making my baby and I statistics lessens the blow.
Despite being single, Christian, having had an abortion, loving my job and all countless things about my life that are good and bad, I want my baby. I want this baby. I want the miracle that spent 8 weeks growing in me. I want this nameless, genderless, faceless baby. I feel hollow and completely empty having this gift that was given only to be taken away. No celebration, no balloons and sandwiches with friends and family, just gone nearly as quickly as it was there. This hollowness is something I’ve never felt before. It is like there is a hole in the pit of my belly and only pain lives there. Overwhelming pain.
It’s been a month and there are days when I am sure my body still thinks it is still pregnant. I wake up nauseous. That’s painful because I know that there is no baby there. There have been nights when I’ve laid in bed craving vanilla ice cream with caramel and chocolate syrup, like my ex-boyfriend and I ate leading up to the miscarriage. Despite those things playing into this war in my body, the world around me leaves me feeling as if there is something is wrong with me for not being able to keep my hurt private and personal. The world boldly looks you in your face and says it is silly to still be crying regardless of what your body is doing.
So I bottle up this heart-breaking pain. I try to wrap my arms around the war going on in my body and I try to not be pissed at the world for not sending cards or flowers for this occasion. I try to pull myself out of bed to recover. I pretend I’m better even though there are moments every day when it’s hard to breath.
What no one tells you is single, Christian women who’ve are fighting through miscarriages is we deserve to cry. We deserve to fall apart. We deserve to mourn too. There was a miracle growing in us and now it’s gone. We deserve to mourn. To have life in you on one day and it be gone the next is not normal. It’s painful and despite what the world says, we deserve to mourn… and maybe us refusing to bottle it up will give the world a clearer understanding of what love and pain really is.