It’s something you never forget, heartbreak, the way your entire body shook because you could feel the ache and pain in between each airless whimper. Remembering the way your eyes burned from crying and the idea of breathing was beyond exhausting, the recurring, relentless dreams that left you drained and broken. You remember the way nothing felt normal for days and how everytime your phone rang, vibrated or beeped your heart raced wondering if they were reaching out because they missed you the way you missed them. You can’t forget the alcohol, that was suppose to help, made everything worse or how that strangers kiss did nothing to comfort or suppress the ache.
And everytime I think of falling into the arms of a man that may be my happy ending the nightmares of the past consumes me.
I grip tightly to the fact that I cannot be hurt again if I keep people at a distance. That my patched together heart cannot be shattered, cracked or played with if I do not take a chance. But by building walls I have become a person I do not want to be. I have no real urge to pursue a relationship, to put my heart and feelings out in the world for other people to see or even know. I have become the type of person that blames other people for the mistakes men in my past made, and I don’t want to be that person. I do not want to live life bitter, I do not want to live another 25 years alone; yet I have no idea how to change.
How can I forget the ache heartbreak accompanies? Or the soul crushing pain that cheating brings? Some days I wish I had a time machine or amnesia so I could forget the past and the pain I’ve dealt with.
On the day we lost you grandma the world did not change, time did not stand still, People lived and laughed and partied and continued to be carefree. On the night we lost you grandma the city did not become still, or hauntingly quiet. Earth did not shake in distress grandma, for she witnesses death everyday. No, the world did not change, or shake, or dream that it wasn’t real; but we did.
Friday nights in March will always be haunting, but on the rare occasion when the 11th falls on a Friday my heart sinks.
Today marks 11 long years since we lost a remarkable and beautiful woman, her undying love and smile are among the many things I hold dear to my heart. I can’t put into words the sorrow loss brings to a person, just that it leaves you feeling heavy and numb and then sad and hopeless. They say time heals, the say you begin to live life normally again but neither one was true in my case. Time has only allowed my family to fall apart, to crumble and become incompetent and selfish. It has not healed the pain or taken it away and living normally is impossible to do when a crumbling family can’t be in the same room. I have accepted that I cannot change that she left us so soon, but I can’t begin to remember her laugh and her lively spirit and not the sorrow today brings.
11 years ago we lost you and I have missed you everyday since. Rest in sweet paradise grandma, I love you
I have come to accept the fact that I will never completely be cured from my anxiety and depression, or be able to settle my self conscious mind. I have began to accept that I cannot play God, I can’t save people who do not want to be saved and I can’t put other people’s problems and needs before my own. I have accepted and made peace with my dads passing, my grandmas passing and the fact that my home no longer feels like home, but rather a giant reminder of pain and loss.
But there’s one thing I cannot accept. That my ability to carry and have my own children is compromised by evil little sacs that contain the beginning stage of my unborn.
Tiny, and not so tiny, cysts fill and crowd my ovaries and my endometrial walls. Holding hostage my only dream.
I have longed to be a mom since the day I began playing with dolls. I loved all babies, minus my shit head cousin, and enjoyed interacting with them throughout my entire life. When I became sexually active at 14 I dreamed about our baby, how proud I would of been to be a mom; yes proud at 14. I prayed and hoped that I would fall pregnant and have someone that I could teach all the things my mom taught me. I know how far fetched and unimaginably stupid that sounds & I had so many things to look forward to at 14 but a baby was my biggest dream. While it was never confirmed, I believe that for a while a little baby lived within the walls of my womb. I remember the intense pain and nausea, I remember the heavier then usual “period” that soaked through every tampon and pad I tried to use and the “clots” that stained. At the time, young and stupid, I had no idea what a miscarriage really was but I knew something wasn’t normal. I was experiencing stress that was nothing like I ever imagined, my boyfriend coming out, my grandma dying and my dad getting sick controlled my only thoughts and I assumed the unusual period was because of that. I know that God has plans for us that we cannot understand, and maybe he knew the confusion my baby would go through, or the father B wouldn’t be and decided to take my baby back home. Whatever the reason, I know he is safe in the arms of the Angels and that God is telling him all about how much I loved him then and how I think about who he could of been everyday.
He is my only angel baby, my body gave up after him I’m sure. I began to have my period less and less and finally last year I talked to my doctor about it. Being thrown into an unstoppable tornado of emotions and prescriptions and doctors and blood being taken and ultrasounds my biggest fear came true. “You have PCOS” she said, “Re-test your levels in 3 months” was the only answer I recieved. No medication or ways to get rid of it, just a print out of what PCOS was. I had no answers, no reassurance that I could still have children, just a diagnosis.
While I am not sexually active at the moment my heart still breaks thinking that my only dream will never come true and that’s something I cannot begin to accept