I’m really, really, (REALLY) tired of pretending everything is okay. Of people talking to me about ANYTHING under the sun EXCEPT for the one thing that tears my heart and consumes my mind daily. I’m tired of people pretending that my pain has lessened from losing our sweet Lennox, when really it has only amplified as we are in the trenches of infertility. I’m tired of feeling like I have to go along with talking about regular things and dodging the subject of my daughter/loss/infertility when that is consuming so much of my life. I am so tired of having to tell yet one other person close in my life congratulations and witness something so completely debilitating for me happen and unfold so easily for them, right in front of my eyes. I’m so tired of feeling left out and excluded from a club I very much belong to, just in a different way. I am so tired of the daily, unexpected triggers. So tired of the insensitive comments and thoughtlessness of others. I am tired of people forgetting Lennox’s big dates (or saying something late) as time goes on. I am tired of people putting everything in their life first and failing to recognize the daily pain Broc and I face. I am so drained from the façade that I have even convinced myself of, that everything is okay. It is so draining to keep up with everything else for everyone else, when I am suffering every day. To keep going with life and enjoying moments when your world also feels so stagnant. I’m tired of it, but I’m also not. Confused? Good. Because that is just a small indicator of how it feels to be the one living out this fucking nightmare.
But, let me try an explain it. It’s like living a double life that you never wanted/imagined having. I am wanting time to standstill, and wait for me to catch up, but also wanting to live my life and find joy since I know that wish is unrealistic. Sometimes it IS easier to pretend, and to keep moving. Sometimes it feels like in these most horrific circumstances, that is the only way to even get through. It’s this paradox of the human brain’s response to trauma, leaving you screaming in pain below the surface, and also a functioning human being outside; sometimes completely lacking conscious awareness that this is your reality.
It’s resilience-it’s survival-it’s healing.
As I am so desperate to lay groundwork for this new “me” and continue living, to find laughter and joy, I simultaneously feel like inside I am completely dying. The “me” I once knew seems so distant and foreign; I can’t even really picture who the me was before Lennox died and before we faced infertility.
The grief of losing a child is completely unbearable, and completely unnatural to go through. How can that ever make sense? And, adding the grief of infertility after losing that child (when you finally are even brave enough to try again) compounds that grief into something indescribably painful. Each month, you face more awful news and a new layer of grief. You find yourself asking “how is this actually my life, and how long will this go on?” And, for some reason, as my grief trudges on- and so does this awful journey- the support of everyone else seems to drop off. It’s so, so lonely to be here. People tell me not to feel that way, that I am loved. I know that I am, I do. But I can assure you it is hard to feel that love when you so often only hear silence or feel as though bringing up your very real and often debilitating pain is met by sorry’ s and a scurry to the next conversation as quickly as possible. I think people innocently just assume that because you carry it so well, that you don’t need or want the extra support.
The distractions do help, and there IS real joy in my life. I have plans for the future and share memories with my husband, family, and friends that I treasure. I want to talk about other things because at the same time my world is shattered, my life is moving forward and it’s not waiting one second for me to catch up. But, I want to make it abundantly clear that those feelings are not exclusive to the harrowing feelings I additionally carry every day.
I have learned, because you have to, to carry it all. To shove it aside, to not talk about it with others (both for self-protection- ie: the most insensitive and triggering comments- and to make them feel comfortable by not having to “go there”), to compartmentalize my pain in order to function. It’s all very complex, and I don’t think anyone could fully understand unless they’ve walked something similar. But, I just wish people would at least try. Maybe then it wouldn’t feel so lonely, maybe then I would feel like Lennox is remembered, maybe then I would feel like our devastating daily infertility journey is remembered, maybe then I would feel a little bit seen. I am so tired of pretending, but I’m also not.
It’s confusing, but there you have it.