I’d tell you to leave him


When you find out that he’s lies to you, blatantly or by omission.

When he’s also hurting you physically. Accidently…maybe.

When you are always the “bad guy”.

When you hate yourself.

I’d tell you to leave him. But you won’t. Not yet.

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When you have no one to ask what to do


My six-year old just told me that he worries he’s going to die. Everytime he gets hurt, he worries he’ll die. Because of Tallulah. 

Maybe some could say he was being the typical dramatic kid but he wasn’t joking this time. Wasn’t trying to get laughs or eyes on him. He was serious.

Jesus fuck me Christ.

Every day she finds a way to rip my heart open. Still.

Told my boy that what happened to his sister won’t happen to him. Who should I call for support on this? Dead baby club, where are y’all?

Do I even believe it? 

Whatever happened, please don’t let anything happen again. I can’t do it again. Fuck me for living through it already.

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Time to learn something new


Going dark for awhile. Will emerge at a later date with better thoughts.

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Big-ole


It’s becoming impossible to tell how I feel. It’s even more impossible to keep trying to care to discover how I feel. The line between real shit and manufactured shit is disintegrating. You like that? That’s my fancy way of saying something ain’t right.

I digress.

A list, because why not:

Things I currently worry about:

  • Something happening to my children.
  • Something happening to this baby.
  • Something *not* happening to this baby and knowing again how fucking no-sense-making something happening to Tallulah was.
  • How awful it is that the above is a thing I have to worry about.
  • Why we aren’t married yet and what, if anything, does that mean?
  • If his reasons for the above are really just excuses.
  • Wondering how a naturally insecure person feel secure while struggling with depression and anxiety and just breathing?
  • Thinking of and being annoyed by all the cute, pithy, zing-y bits of advice designed to cope with the above.
  • My job, and why I don’t want it.
  • Frustration at my inability to stop hoisting my own petard.
  • Disappointment over having another child that I’ll just have to hand off to a day care or babysitter so I can continue working at this job.
  • Where to enroll my youngest in school, and the implications that come from each choice.
  • Finding whatever it is I should be doing with my life, whatever the hell that means.
  • Wondering if I even have the ability to recognize whatever *it* is when I see it.
  • How much of a damn relief death will be.

Anyway. I thought writing some of this down would help. Seeing the words, blah blah blah. But, it doesn’t. It’s just more of the void. Void-ier every day!

I asked him if he thought ECT was worth the disruption, he doesn’t think so. I get it. It’s a hell of a disruption and as the treatments spread out, the payoff was less noticeable. But then what is left? Restarting the magical journey of all the drugs again? Going through this one and that one and the side effects and the increasing anxiety and disappointment of still not being right? Doctor appointments, psychiatrists, therapy, pills, or doctor appointments, psychiatrist and ZAP!

All with a newborn plus three other kids and also while trying to plan a wedding?

Ha.

I think the answer here is get over it, Kim. There is no solution and there is no relief. You aren’t dead and you still gotta do everything.

Still feels odd that death remains the best thing I’ve got to look forward to.

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Click click boom


Pretty sure I’ve used that title before. I’m stealing it from Ice Cube – just in case y’all didn’t know.

Typing this on my phone coz my laptop doesn’t like sharing space with my belly. 

Where’s the fucking inspiration?

I’m pregnant (again, yeah yeah), things are going relatively well. Don’t hold back, now, Kim. On the surface things look pretty good.

Good guy. Good kids. Good job. Good.

Then. After she died, and especially before/during/after shock therapy, it seemed to me that I finally felt all the feelings. Anger was the biggest. Still is. I know it’s normal. I know it happens. I know it isn’t *forever* (because who needs to keep learning that lesson, right!) but now feeling the absence of those emotions is just, tiring? Bleh? I’m just fucking down and stuck and I feel like I shouldn’t be.

I want to be excited. I want to be angry. I want to just feel awake in my own life. I don’t know how to do that, I guess. Springtime. Who needs it?

I guess I’m not in the mood to write, after all.

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Hello there.


Been wondering what it takes to write. What’s the thing that allows someone to put their thoughts and feelings out there? Is it knowing that it will be seen, can be seen – or is it hoping that it won’t be?

Hope.

What a loaded concept.

Isn’t hoping just waiting without frowning?

Almost six months pregnant now. It’s a boy. Another boy, he will be my third.

Third son, will be my fourth child. Eighth pregnancy. Eights.

We’ve picked out a name. We’ve bought exactly one outfit. It’s difficult to be excited, though I am glad it’s…

She died, you understand. She died ten days after being born. Nine months of pregnancy, she was fine. Born, she was fine. Brought home, she was fine. First doctor’s appointment, she was fucking fine.

Ten days after birth. Pink, healthy, happy baby.

So what happened? What happened is I woke up, she was sleeping next to me (she looked asleep), came downstairs, went upstairs to check on her, she’s dead. She wasn’t asleep. Her skin was already turning grey. She had the pinkest skin of any of my children. Elvis has my yellow skin. Henry was a yellowish-cream. Tallulah was pink. A rather brownish-pink, all the more startling to see it gone, faded to a waxy grey. I swear it didn’t look like that when I woke up and peeked at her. But how close did I really look? She was my third. By the third you aren’t waiting to see the chest rise and fall before you let out your own breath. By the third you are just relieved that they are still asleep.

She had died in the middle of the night – they couldn’t give me a better answer than that, really. Everyone assured me that she didn’t suffer (how would they fucking know??). She died like in that song. Without a whisper.

I used to love that fucking song.

Autopsy showed nothing.

When I received the report, I asked what had happened. They said suffocated. I asked how is that possible? I said she wasn’t covered. She was lying on her side. Facing away from me. She was in the same position that she fell asleep in. Yes, she was lying right next to me. I share a bed with my newborns. Always have.

They said although nothing turned up in the autopsy report to show that she had in fact suffocated, the fact that she was in my bed tells them the cause is suffocation. They don’t need anything else, apparently. Even the absence of fibers in her mouth or nose or lungs didn’t matter. Suffocated. Death by bed. It’s amazing. Why her and not me?

I find that difficult to wrap my brain around. Why didn’t my other babies die that way, I wonder? Of all the parents that I know, they all tell me how their babies shared a bed with them. They don’t add “well, till it killed them, ya know”. So why her?

Yes, I know the damn campaign slogans. I buy diapers stamped with the “back to sleep” crap. She was on her side. Not her stomach. And you all do realize how that is all bullshit, right? It’s to prevent SIDS – except no one knows what the fuck SIDS is or why it happens. Did you know that? Because I sure as hell know that. After she died all I could do was read about everything I could about what kills otherwise healthy babies. They don’t fucking know and that is just horrifying. It’s horrifying because what’s to stop something like that from happening again?

I suppose I could just grow a pair and demand to speak to the actual doctor that performed the autopsy, rather than the fucking assistant. But what if? What if I killed my daughter? Accidental is still fucking horrible. She was my third child. Shouldn’t I be able to just *know* that something is perfectly safe when it is as simple as a bed? What if she would still be here if it wasn’t for being in my bed?

One day I will call again. I will demand answers, either way. I just, I can’t yet.

What if it wasn’t the bed at all, but just unexplainable? How is that better?

I will keep my next child in his bassinet next to, but not in, my bed – now just out of paranoia than any actual sense of danger. Because, I need to know that cannot happen again.

But, how can I be sure?

I am trying to move on. It’s been over a year since she died. That’s no time, really. The time that passes is just time that puts distance between me and my only daughter. I don’t want distance. I want her. Wanted her then. Wanting her still.

But, I have other children. Very marvelous, maddening children. A new step-daughter. Well past the baby years at ten but she is a delight, all the same. We are expecting a baby. I’ve always been nuts about babies. I feel like I am not showing enough excitement for this one, but how can I get excited when I’ve seen what happens?

35 years old now. I am not in fear of my own mortality. Generally I am willing to cast my life aside with little to no provocation. But, my children. I am in fear now. Fear for their mortality.

The worst thing that we can face in this life must be the knowledge that our children die.

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gulping saltwater


“Not everyone wears their scars on their skin.”
― Isla J. Bick

“So I go to the ocean to say goodbye…
We could have been so glorious.”
― Charlotte Eriksson

Somewhere on the side of HWY 71 lies my Saint Dymphna necklace that I have worn for almost 20 years, and my engagement ring – worn for six months maybe.

I cannot put into words what possessed me to throw out my last few valued possessions, nor will I attempt any such undertaking. What is there to say?

Ever feel that you are just drowning. Most people drown very silently. No one even sees them slip under the water. By the time their absence is noticed it is usually too late to save them.

This is how I feel.

Melodramatic? Maybe. Self-absorbed? Obviously.

All the good I have ever done has been done. There is nothing in this world to look forward to except death, and release from breathing.

In.

Out.

Done.

There is no one I can go to with these thoughts or feelings. Not him. He is terrified of my relaxed laissez-faire attitude towards suicide.

Ah. My good friend. She understands. She waits for me.

“Did you really want to die?”
“No one commits suicide because they want to die.”
“Then why do they do it?”
“Because they want to stop the pain.”
― Tiffanie DeBartolo, How to Kill a Rock Star

“Some people are just not meant to be in this world. It’s just too much for them.”
― Phoebe Stone, The Boy on Cinnamon Street

Those happy things: marriage, a new baby. These things will never happen. How can they? The man that says he wants to marry me is the same man whose ring I tossed to the highway after a night of endless panic.

We never discuss marriage unless I bring it up – and it always seems to exasperate him. He likes waiting. To me waiting is drowning.

My brain has been put on a shelf for repairs. Some days are okay and some. Some I just feel so alone and so burdened down with responsibility I cannot breathe.

Another baby? Ha!

I am 35 years old now. I am no better off financially that when I was 25. Another baby.

I can’t even properly care for the two that survived me. I need to buy my boys new clothes. Clean their rooms. Clean this disgusting home that once held so many hopes but now just makes me tired and bitter.

I have nothing more to say for now. No one listens. They just want me to get up, go to work, provide. So I will, till it kills me.

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