I felt drawn here tonight despite not having been here in over 5 years. It feels safe. No one comes here anymore, myself included. I feel comforted in the knowledge that this place shares the same cobwebs that my writing does–maybe we can shake them off together. Forgive me.
I’m sitting here staring at the blinking cursor not even knowing where to begin. My heart is heavy with so many things. I guess I can start by explaining that sometimes I feel really, really sad. I sincerely wish I had a better word for it, but nothing explains it better. Sadness overwhelms every part of my life. I’ve been sleeping until noon, not working (or at least phoning it in), and today I took a shower for the first time in four days. And honestly, the only reason I took that shower is because I don’t have the energy or desire to do laundry and my sheets are starting to smell bad. I’d be mortified if anyone saw me in this state and at the same time, I couldn’t give a fuck. I also haven’t seen another human being in just as many days. The only thing greater than my sadness is my loneliness. I’m prone to these types of moods, always have been. Probably always will be. But I wake up every god damned day and give it everything I have to give. Even if that just means getting out from under the covers. Sometimes that is the kind of victory I have to celebrate myself for.
But other times, there are things going on that are larger than me that account for why I am feeling as low as I am. It could be as simple as the hormone surges and deficits from a period that is mere days away. Other times it’s an impending car drive that I’m anticipating. There are also, of course, the things that are so painstakingly obvious…loneliness, hopelessness, negative self talk, drinking too much, isolating myself, judging myself, envy, anger…the list could go on and on.
But (at least for tonight) I think I have it pinpointed.
Mother’s Day.
There was a time in my life when that path felt so clear. Hell, it’s what this entire blog what founded upon. I would have given anything to achieve that goal. And in some ways, I did give everything: my time, my body, my mental health, my marriage.
Every year since we terminated that pregnancy, this day doesn’t get easier as one would expect that it would. Instead, I’m sitting here picturing the box I buried in the backyard at the dead of midnight. The box that contains sonograms, the sperm vial, and every other concrete memory I tried desperately to forget. Then I remember that the box is buried in the backyard of a house I don’t even own anymore. A house that is filled with 3 small children, a husband, and a wife. A house that I purchased with that very same dream in mind. Yet, the only mark I made on that house is a box buried in the backyard full of death, sadness, and so much regret. And I hate that I suffer alone in that memory. An old friend of mine used to send me flowers every mother’s day and what would have been that baby’s due date. How she remembered every year, I can’t explain. But she did. But like people do, we’ve move on and what was once flowers is now a facebook message. Don’t get me wrong! I LOVE her for this and I thank her for this; it just reminds me that time marches on and the scars on our hearts don’t last as long in other people’s memories.
This Mother’s Day all I really want is to lay around and feel sorry for myself. Torturing myself seems like a fitting punishment. But instead, I will put on a smile, show up to the family day, and pretend like everything is absolutely perfect. And that’s tough for me because I also have the side of me that if another woman in my place asked for advice I’d tell her to show up and give ’em hell. Feel your feels, girl! But for some reason I can’t extend that kindness to myself. So I’ll drink too much wine and wait until I get home that night. alone, and soak my pillow with my tears.
God, it all sounds so fucking dramatic when I read it back. But, trust me, that’s exactly how it will go. Just like every other year. Then I will wake up on Monday thankful that I have 364 days until I have to do it all over again.
And this. I can’t believe I am even saying this, but here it is. I’d make a deal with the devil to never bare my own children if it meant that I would never feel depressed ever again.
I guess, all that to say RIP Baby Ford. He/She would have been almost 6 years old and I’ll never forget the brief, but intense hold you had on me. And so clearly always will.
The Future Fords 