Guest Post by Tracy
Yesterday my mom said that I should do things I don’t want to because it will help me get over it faster. And then today suggested I visit my doctor—I might need medicine for depression.
I’m not going to get over it—I may get through it; there may be another side of this grief, but it will never be over.
I’m sad—grieving—but I don’t think I’m depressed. It’s only been two weeks. I lost a child. A child I had hopes and dreams for. Eleven weeks in utero or eleven years on earth… I still am not supposed to outlive my child. I am sad. Drugs won’t make my sadness go away.
I was hurt. This is my mother whom I’m very close to. I always feel able to tell her anything. And now I know I won’t anymore. Not this. This is mine to hold—not to hurt. I went in my house, sat on the stairs and held back tears.
And then I thought about it…
I already tell myself that the words come from a good place. And in my head I repeat the mantra “It’s from a good place, it’s from a good place.”
But recently, I’ve added another thought: “I’m so glad they don’t understand.” To understand is to have lost. That’s the only way someone really “gets it.” They too lost a child like I lost a child. They too wept for their baby, their dreams and their innocence.
I would never wish that hurt on anyone. No matter how much they hurt me. I don’t want them to understand—most especially not my mom. that understanding comes at such a high price. And I would never, ever, ever want any one else to pay that price.
My price is enough.