I have recently been on a not-so-fun trip down memory lane. Though I have really tried hard not to 'dwell,' I guess it's inevitable, given the time of year and the hilarity these sorts of 'anniversaries' bring with them. I was also recently asked about what I "can't stand" (other than the obvious) about my particular situation having lost two babies. At first it was all too easy to lash out and find fault. I could list a zillion things other people have said, done, not said, or not done, that have driven me mad with anger, frustration, and disappointment. But there has always been this nagging feeling that that wasn't what actually bothered me.
Today I took some time to reconnect with some old friends. And what I discovered was this...it is ME that I can't stand. I can not stand that I spend all my time on edge...waiting to be hurt or sad or defensive...anticipating the next careless comment or insensitive remark. Quite simply, I don't trust people anymore.
I suppose it is quite reasonable that I should be wary of other people given the sensitivity that dead babies tend to create in a mother's soul. But really, the thing that bothers me is not the careless comments or the insensitive remarks. I can usually forgive those because I know they come from well-meaning, albeit naive, hearts and souls. No...the thing that really bothers me is my own internal expectation of disappointment. I can still enjoy the company of others, but I'm always holding my breath...fearing that moment when a misdirected comment will inflict pain. It's as if I always reserve a piece of me now in some weird attempt to protect my heart.
Nobody can fix that. Even if they say all the right things I will always hold that bit of myself back. Waiting. Fearing. Crying. Alone.