Apologies for the way I’ve been
And I couldn’t wash you off my skin, no I
I couldn’t live without you

You’re under my skin
Running in my bloodstream
These scars are the way that you loved me
I guess that you have to leave a tattoo
On my skin

What I know versus what I feel.

This is possibly the biggest crisis I face on a daily basis. Especially when knowing that what I feel wouldn’t and couldn’t make sense to anyone else. Because it’s how I feel.

To compound on that, it’s an entirely different ball game when the person that you want to feel a certain way just doesn’t. And it’s not because they couldn’t. It’s just that they don’t. And it will never matter what you do, or say. Or give. Of yourself. None of it will make even the littlest bit of difference. So you have to accept that, in spite of knowing how you feel. And feel the razor thin cut against the veins of your soul. The one that has the potential to bleed you to death. Even if you control the hand that holds that blade.

So then you realize that everyone has the luxury of looking out for themselves. Their best interests. Their desires. Their feelings. And even if you don’t do such a great job of doing it for yourself, you have to remember and expect that they always will. They always have. You’ve watched them do so firsthand for a very long time.

It’s time to put down the phone. Stop sending the novel length text messages. Stop expecting to see a response that you want. One that matches your feelings. It never will. It never has. You aren’t going to get that. Hoping for it just slices the open wound a little bit deeper.

I know we’re supposed to believe that hope doesn’t fail. But it does. Hope fails us all. Everyday. It failed in my desperation for my son. It’s failed me again in my hopes for his father. For Peter Pan. You aren’t Wendy. You never were.

You can be past a little let down. As long as you remember that you’re not dead. Even if they’ve already ripped out the pages that you were in their story. You won’t do that. You never could. But you can close that chapter and stop rereading it looking for an alternate ending. There isn’t one. There won’t be one.

The rest of your life is unwritten. Maybe you could find the courage to open yourself up to it. I so hope that one day you do.

This is my fight song
Take back my life song
Prove I’m alright song
My power’s turned on
Starting right now I’ll be strong
I’ll play my fight song
And I don’t really care if nobody else believes
‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me

Why someone would want to test my mama bear instincts is beyond me. Like seriously, beyond me. I have and will let a lot of things roll of my back, because really, it means nothing. And more than that, said person that is attempting to poke the bear is so incredibly insignificant to this life as a whole, that it really has always meant nothing. But comma however, the very first second that you try to make any reference or connection to my child, well then, that’s a bad move on your end.

As you’ve recently discovered. Bad move little bear.

Don’t do it again. Next time I’ll be less than nice. Because trust me, I was in fact nice when I had to correct your ass. I’m sorry that you chose me to try to dig at the person that you have a real issue with, and further more, that you tried to make a connection to my child. I’m sorry that your self-esteem and self-worth at that low. But that has nothing to do with me, nor will it ever.

I”m sorry that I am in fact prettier than you, and I’m not meaning in the physical sense. Although I’m not sure that you could negate that one either. But I have a good heart. Good character. You cannot say the same. So not only does that translate past that miserable look plastered on your face all the time, but it shows the disturbingly dark color of your heart and excessively low levels of negative energy that pour out of you on a daily basis. I hope you find some way to love yourself soon. I really do.

One day your love quotient will rise, and hopefully it rises within yourself first. Until that time little bear, it would be well advised for you to keep your distance. From both me and my social media sites. Stalking has never been cute, specifically when you have no reason to be interested in me. If you did, then I would imagined you would have looked me in the eyes and spoken the numerous times we’ve been face to face, instead of hanging your head or looking away. Notice I don’t do that with you. I don’t have to with non-factors. You are a non-factor, or were until you tried to fight your relationship issues with a connection to my child. So continue to make any more references or connections involving my son, and I will in fact have a reason to dislike you. Do yourself a favor and don’t give me that.

Respectfully,

-One Tough Mother

Did you know I always thought you were braver than me? Did you ever guess that that was why I was so afraid? It wasn’t that I only loved some of you. But I wondered if you could ever love more than some of me.

Father’s Day took me by surprise this year. Not because I wasn’t expecting it, anticipating it. But because I didn’t think it would bother me. I’m not a father. This wasn’t my day. My day was in May, and I actually think I felt worse on Father’s Day than I did on Mother’s day.

My heart literally hurt for my son’s father on Sunday. And I knew there was nothing I could do to make it an easy or good day for him. It didn’t much matter since he was noticeably absent again, but he was noticeably absent on Mother’s Day too, so if I said I was surprised I’d be lying. I wasn’t. But this isn’t about that. Or him. None of this is about him. It never has been.

But yesterday was the day that my little boy should have officially been 6 months old. It seems weird to think about that. That I should have a 6 month old. And I get stuck wondering what he would be doing. I never really got any real milestones with him unfortunately, so to think about everything he’d be able to do at this point leaves my mind spinning. I wonder what size clothes he’d be in, although I’m pretty sure he’d be close to 12 months since he came out filling out those 0-3 months pretty good. And just length wise he needed quite a bit of extra space.

It’s weird because I spent last week anticipating yesterday, but yesterday I honestly didn’t even remember until about 4:30. Blame it on an extremely long day at work that was prefaced by only 3 hours of sleep. I was oddly nostalgic yesterday though, mostly about my pregnancy and missing all of those special moments. Like the ones where his daddy would put his phone to my belly and play the most ridiculous songs for him to hear, only for me to tell him he’d never hear that in real life as long as I had my way. Ironically I was right and he never did, but that’s not a good thing.

I did get the most amazing signs all the way from NYC yesterday, from one of the sweetest, bravest mamas I know. It was definitely a gift from Xander and Kamren that was sent to her, to send to me. Maybe they knew I was just too out of it yesterday to notice it for myself. But they let us know that they’re good. Probably even great. And they even left a little message for X’s little rainbow bother S. That was certainly not a coincidence.

I am so glad to have other mamas to send me messages and signs like that. Especially since I don’t truly have anyone else walking this path with me anymore. He politely excused himself, which was his choice. It makes things harder sometimes. To face it alone. But I’m actually pretty good at being alone. I kind of always have been. Maybe I’m fiercely independent. Maybe I’m just an idiot. It’s still a coin toss at this point. But what I do know, is that I’ll never have to answer to Kamren and tell him why I walked away. Because I didn’t, and I won’t. Not ever. I will carry him with me every step of the way.

 I’ve learned some days can be good, and other’s more than bad. That’s life, especially now. But past that, past the good and the bad, I’ve gotten familiar with my days being empty. And feeling empty.

Today was one of those days.

I didn’t necessarily feel bad, but I certainly didn’t feel good either. I just felt, empty.

It wasn’t a random emptiness either. It’s the empty feeling left by the loss of my future. My dreams. My family. My SON. Mostly my son. Completely my son.

And I know I’m certainly not the first person to know this pain. Not even close. And for that I’m thankful. Not that others have lost their children as well, but just for the fact that I’m not alone. Not completely anyways.

But I do feel alone in the sense that most of the couples I know that have lost a child have managed to stay together and go on to have more children. So there’s hope there. Something to look forward too. I thought I had that for a while. Something to look forward too. Hopes for another child, or at least starting to try. We even talked about it, me and his dad. And seemed like maybe we were on the same page. Maybe we weren’t and I just didn’t notice. It doesn’t matter now.

That’s where the empty enters.

I know I’ve referenced Ground Hog’s Day in the past, but even today and speaking on the phone to one of my best fiends,  she pointed out that it really does seem like I’m living like that. Because I am. It’s not by choice. I don’t think anyways. But everyday just seems to be the same. Wake up, work, work out, hang out with Lola, shower, sleep, repeat. It’s a cycle; 5:45 A.M to 11:30 P.M., Monday through Friday. This is my life.

How the hell did this become my life?!

This was never what I wanted for my life. Never what I dreamed for it. I have goals. I had goals. Professionally. Personally. All of it. But now, now it’s enough to get through the next day.

Except it’s really not. Not enough. It’s really empty. Incredibly empty. The deafening silence of emptiness actually. It’s all but consumed me. It just seems like it would be so much easier to just pack it in, ya know? Admit defeat. Give up. But then, I’m not entirely sure what I would even have left to give up? Seriously, I got nothing. Unless you count materialistic shit. I have a lot of that. A lot of shit. A lot of nice shit I suppose. A lot of fancy brands and designer labels. Shit I used to covet, in a sense. Or at least be excited to swipe that Amex for. But now, it’s literally just shit.

Because do you know what I don’t have anymore? A baby crib. And oh, Kam had the most beautiful crib by Sorelle. I was so happy with that. It was flawless. And I don’t have an abundance of diapers, both clean and dirty. Or a freezer full of breast milk since Kamren was exclusively breast-fed and never saw a drop of formula. I don’t have any of the things that are actually worth something. That have value. I’d burn my closet full of designer bags in an instant to have a need for Kam’s diaper bag again. (That was a Petunia Pickelbottom bag, but I got it on sale!)

I’d sell my soul for one more moment with him. Right to the highest bidder, Devil included. And how happily I would do it. I’d probably throw in a few extras for good measure. Even if it was just one more snuggle. One more kiss. One more moment to breathe him in and feel just a little less empty. Just for one moment. To remember what it felt like that have the full happy feeling of love. The sheer happiness felt as my arm would fall asleep holding him until he did the same. Or the 5 A.M feeding that resulted in him dozing back off on my chest. And his contented smile from a fully belly and the warmth of my body up against his. Yep, right to the highest bidder. Everything I own, plus me.

They say the wound is where the light enters. I guess I’m still waiting for that light. Right now, for me, the wound is where the empty enters. And man, there’s a lot of it.

I made the very conscious decision last night to post an incredibly raw and real moment to my Instagram account. It wasn’t for shock value, I’ve never been a big fan of that. And it wasn’t for likes, or comments, or even support. Though of course the support is always so so welcome. It was because I don’t think it’s fair for me to try and share my story, my son’s story, but only show you half of it. I tend to stay away from the messy, the overtly sad, and especially disheartening. There’s a reason for that, specifically on social media sites where I don’t know the majority of my ‘friends’ in real life, or at least real life since high school or early college days.

But, sometimes, and specifically lately, I just feel like my heart can’t be silent. About a lot of things. About everything. Even now, scrolling through my news feed I saw the story regarding a country singer and his wife who just lost their baby girl a week after birth. But most people won’t see this. Or they won’t read it or acknowledge it. And I was guilty of this before losing Kam. Because no one wants to acknowledge that babies die. It’s not natural. It’s not comfortable. It’s not anything that anyone wants to validate. But alas, babies do die. Every single day. More than one a day. More than 100 a day. So why are we so quiet about this? Why do we shout from the rooftops regarding breast cancer, which is survivable. And no, I’m not taking away from any horrible disease. But why are so comfortable talking about things like that, that do have a high survival rate, and we shy away from child loss?

And call me biased, I certainly am. But I will talk about this. I need to talk about this. For myself. And for all of the other mothers who haven’t been able to find their voice yet after they were forced to say goodbye to their child. Forever. Not goodbye for the day, for school, for summer camp. But for always.

So then I thought, this needs to change. To be changed. For me. For my son. For every other parent who has had to said goodbye to their future when they said goodbye to their baby.

That’s when I realized I wanna make a difference
Change other people’s lives, give hope, even for a moment
Use my name for good and change the game, I could.

So last night, I posted the messy. I posted the tears. The redness. The makeup-less. I posted everything that child loss is, summed up into one picture. The response was deafening, in a good way. I think a lot of people just assume you’re doing better because you can function like a ‘normal’ human being again when you’re out in public. Or because you can force a smile, or even sometimes let a real one spread across your lips. And don’t get me wrong, we live for those simple moments. The ones that remind us that there is still hope. But even that’s messy.

Life, love, moving forward, looking back, grieving with hope – it’s all so incredibly messy

“People tell me all the time that they can’t imagine what it’s like to loose a child, so I decided the capture the very raw moment. Of what it’s like. What it is. When your shower becomes your refuge and allows you to break down daily with no judgement given. Just the fresh smell of your body wash mixed with the salt from your tears. Coming together to drown your body in a bittersweet release in preparation for the next day’s coming war. When the tub becomes the safest place to fall to your knees and let go of those guttural cries that could cut steal. The place where the most honest conversations with God are had, and you allow yourself to let the anger and emptiness flow freely. 

-For you it’s just a shower. A means to a clean body. For me it’s the only way left to cleanse my soul, and bleed my spirit.”

It’s a really old city
Stuck between the dead and the living
So I thought to myself,
Sitting on a graveyard shelf
As the echo of heartbeats,
From the ground below my feet
Filled a cemetery
In the center of Queens

I started running the maze of
The names and the dates, some
Older than others the skyscrapers, little tombstone brothers
With Manhattan behind her, three million stunning reminders
Built a cemetery
In the center of Queens

So how do you do it,
With just words and just music,
Capture the feeling that my earth is somebody’s ceiling
Can I deliver in sound
The weight of the ground
Of a cemetery
In the center of Queens

There’s a history through her 
Sent to us as a gift from the future
To show us the proof
More than that, it’s to dare us to move
And to open our eyes and to learn from the sky
From a cemetery
In the center of Queens

It’s odd, you know. That I can so casually comment that I’m leaving the cemetery if someone calls my phone in one of those moments. And hearing the stunned silence from the other end of the line just emphasizes it. But that is normal, at least for me. And certainly for now. That’s the place where I go to visit my son. And remember the all too small casket that holds his now lifeless body.

It didn’t use to be though. Normal, that is.

I guess I’ve never really had an issue with cemeteries. They’ve never scared me or made me uncomfortable. I never got this impending sense of doom. I still don’t. I always find it interesting to navigate through them. And picture the people who now call that ground home.

I wonder what they were like. What they loved. If they loved. It’s so surreal how much history a few acres of land can hold.

My son has called his space home now for almost 4 months. Today makes it officially 5 months since he had to leave, but it took over a month to actually get him buried due to the gross negligence of the hospital where he passed.

Sometimes I wake up and still think that maybe he’ll wake up next to me. It’s worse after I dream of him. Waking up from those moments are the worst. It’s weird though. Even when I dream of him, I know he’s dead. It always seems to happen that he just magically wakes up and I get to take him home, but even in my dream, I know that he’s dead. Sometimes I question it, but typically I’m just so happy that I scoop him up and run away.

I wish it really did work like that. I wish he could just wake back up somehow and come home with me again. No one will ever understand how entirely big and lonely this 700 sq foot condo is now. When he was here there didn’t seem to be enough room for us, but now it just seems larger than life. That’s odd to me.

And I’ve spent the past few months house hunting, trying to find anywhere to get me out of this postwar place. But it’s hard to picture a place and what your family should be doing it in, when you don’t have any part of your family left. Besides the dog anyways. Sometimes I justify that I’m looking for a house to give Lola a nice back yard. These 700 sq feet are probably in fact still too small for her.

But when I see these places, all I see is the loss of both my son and his father. And what my family was supposed to be. And in those moments I’m happy to go back to my little 700. Postwar. Family-less. No room to grow. No room to go. In any direction. Besides the cemetery. Which is where I’m off to now. To mourn the loss of my son. The loss of my family. And the loss of myself.