Every time I write about it, my heart shrinks a size.
It doesn't mean I'm OK.
It doesn't mean I'm happy. It doesn't mean I'm better.
It means I've learned to live with my pain.
It means I've decided not to share my pain in order to avoid others feeling sorry for me.
It means I've decided to keep quiet because I've had a large enough dose of stupid comments.
It means I've gone over my ways to be over it, and everything gets me back to the same place I started at.
It means staying in bed on my due date. It means no one at home remembered... Those who did aren't close enough...
It means the pain is more real than ever, yet sometimes I wonder if it was just a bad dream.
It means I'm aware of how hard I'm trying to be nowhere close to where I am, yet I'm still here.
It means two days from now, it will be five months since we said goodbye.
It means you would have been 2 weeks old.
It means having so much to do in order to help my brain stop thinking about it.
It means being sorry for my actions, but not necessarily regretting them.
It means I'm overwhelmed with so many pregnancy announcements and deliveries. It means I'll never be that naïve again.
It means my husband does not understand my pain. I've made peace with the fact that he never will.
It means finding excuses every month to postpone trying again.
It means I'm still standing despite life's constant efforts to bring me down. Or maybe just half of me is.
