You can tell I’m on my period when I talk about “the indicent.”

Or when I tell you in detail about how I have PMS or, you know, just flat out announce that I’m on my period.  That’s also a good way to tell.

But you can rely on me to talk about the miscarriage around this time of the month, too, I’ve come to realize.  Because, really, it’s actually more painful to me than the date on which the miscarriage happened, this bleeding that says there is no life within these fleshy walls we call “my uterus.” 

The bleeding that says, “AH-HAHAHA, YOU ARE ALONE IN THIS SHELL OF MEAT.”

I don’t think my depression about the matter is excessive.  It’s not worse than it was in the beginning, but it’s not really getting better either.  How about that, y’all?  I guess it takes more time.  Or magic dust.  Or what-the-hell-ever.

Most “normal” days I am “fine.”  Whatever that is.  Sometimes stupid things make me cry.  Sometimes un-stupid things make me cry.  Sometimes people say asshole things, and that makes me cry.  But mostly, on “normal” days, I am fine.  And I think, “Oh, I am getting better, and next time I have my period, it will probably not bother me so much like last time.”

But I am wrong.

I have not gotten past the part where I want that very baby back.  Somehow I feel like I should have been able to let that go by now and want a different one, but it’s just not happening for me.  I have times when I can clearly acknowledge the fact that I still want to have another child someday and that I cannot have THAT child someday, and so I would have to have a DIFFERENT child someday.

But I don’t want to.

And then I think about it some more and I wonder if I really DO want to have another child someday.  Maybe I just still think I kind of sorta like the idea of having another one someday, but that it’s not really true that I actually want to have one.

And I really don’t need to hear any more about how often it happens, or why it probably happened.  I especially don’t want to hear about how it was probably ”for the best” because of why it probably happened.  Thanks, but telling me that my “embryo” [my baby, asshole] was probably some kind of fackin’ chromosomally mutated freak isn’t going to make me want it back less.  If Braden had some type of disease, I would also still want him, I’d just WANT HIM TO BE HEALTHY.

Also, Braden has been extra challenging for me lately.  He is pretty much always up my ass so far I’m choking.  Quite often, he is screaming/whining/throwing a tantrum/crying.  I don’t quite know what to do when, for example, I’ve been playing with him all day and then I’m just trying to have a conversation on the phone with my husband who is NOT HERE and whom I MISS and Braden comes over and shoves a toy in my face.  I tell him to wait, but then he cries, screams, or just gets another toy and hits me in the face with it instead.  I get frustrated and raise my voice at him telling him to, “Just let me talk to Daddy for a few minutes!” but that just makes John mad at me. 

It’s all just triggering a level of insanity in me that I am not mentally coping with very well.  Icanhasdrugz?  Maybe that’s what I need.

I’m reaching the end of my rope and finding it’s just a frayed knob and when I look down, there’s a pit of glass shards waiting below.

What with my inability to let go of the desire to have my dead baby back, and Braden having been really, extra difficult lately, I kind of really am starting to sort of think I maybe don’t want to have another one, not even someday, not even one day.  Not ever.

And it’s making it really hard to make love to my husband.  Because THAT’S HOW YOU MAKE A BABY AND I’M SCARED.

(Ooops, I just said that to The Internet, didn’t I?  Oh well.)

 

That ends this installment of Pity Theatre.  Also known as, “Oh, Poor Me!” 

Not likely to be seen on Broadway anytime soon.