Even before leaving the house this morning my eyes burned with a fire. I was crying last night, because I haven't let myself cry all week. Everytime the tears attempted to brim over, I would fight them back. I'd tell myself, "No. Not now." I'd say, "You're being silly." I would muster the gumption to stop them in their tracks. Tears over little things; like commercials and random errant thoughts. Tears over bigger things; like the upcoming holidays and my barren womb. Like how it's almost been 6 months since I lost my first and only pregnancy. Like how I have only ovulated once since then.
This morning I received a text message, and I almsot broke down on my way out the door for work. My eyes are stinging nettles. It was a simple text message, one that last year would have been all smiles and gushing. Now, there's that happiness in there, but there's also that pity for self. It said simply, "T is having the baby today! I will keep you posted."
I'm so glad she's having the baby today. She was due 6 days ago, so it's about time. I knew it was coming. And I'm happy for her, I really am. But it hurts. It hurts so badly. And as I drove to work it wasn't just the glaring morning sun that blinded me, but also my burning eyes. My eyes, the stinging nettles.
This evening, when I leave work, I will go to my quiet time. My time. Sebastian's time. The hours between my time being owned by my job, and being owed to my husband. The twilight of my life is not when the sun is setting to welcome in the darkness, but rather when I am settling into my couch and allowing myself to feel. It is me letting myself mourn Sebastian, letting myself mourn my lost fertility, mourn the future I didn't realize would be so damn hard to have.
I will go home today, I will shut my eyes, I will stare at nothing, and I will cry. And then, I will pick myself up and make myself go about my day. I will steel myself up to do the dishes, I will heave myself int0 sweeping and vacuuming the floors, I will make myself clean the birdcages, and I will somehow manage to read my text messages even if they make me cry. And then I will pick up my husband, and we will go about our day. As if this is normal, this pain that circumvents all other emotions, this ache deep in my chest. Perfectly normal now, though almost a year ago I wasn't sure how I would survive this whole. And yet here I am, I don't know about whole, but here I am. And this pain is the new normal. And I can live with that, for now. But not forever.