Truth Telling and Trap Doors
There is a quote somewhere that says something along the lines of "You think you've hit rock bottom and then you realize you're standing on a trap door."
That's how I feel. You think the worst thing that can ever happen to a person happened to you... and then the things keep coming.
I had a meltdown in front of town hall today that wasn't really about what everyone thought it was about. I went to register our dog and ended up encountering problems because one of the breeds listed on her adoption file was pitbull, and if she's pitbull there's a ton of other hoops we have to jump through which include a higher fence and having her muzzled every time she leaves the house. And I was outraged that people can discriminate against dogs like that and assume all pitbulls are violent (If you've met our dog she is the sweetest thing) and I am not going to treat our dog like she did anything wrong when she hasn't. I wanted to grab her and protect her and keep her safe and make sure she was treated fairly. I immediately went into fight or flight mode, and to anyone else it would have seemed like I was overreacting.
this wasn't about keeping my dog safe (though it was about that too.)
It was about the fact that I couldn't keep my son safe. And people can say whatever they want about me but the moment my child gets brought into it those fierce instincts come up. His memory is the only thing I can protect.
...
I was planning on writing a post about anxiety. How I was diagnosed (understandably) with severe anxiety after everything happened (or perhaps I always had anxiety and this just pushed everything to the surface, which is most likely) and there is medication and different things I do to help manage it.
I was going to write about the stigma surrounding mental illness, because I like writing about controversial things remember?
And then I realized that wasn't the story I wanted to write. Not because it doesn't matter. Mental health and how we view it matters significantly. But because I don't want to be an advocate. I don't want to share my truth and then fight for people to accept them.
I want my life back. I want to feel like I can breathe again. I want an alternate reality in which I could have been pregnant and healthy and picking out baby clothes and things for the nursery instead of picking out the blanket my son will be buried with.
...
But then more people leave. And fighting for my dog reminds me of fighting for my child which reminds me of fighting for myself and I have a breakdown outside of town hall in which I can't breathe and my mechanic's wife calms me down.
...
I haven't gone back to work yet. This is the first week I've been stable and without tubes. My days consist of walking our dog, spending time with her in the yard, doing some gentle yoga, writing and listening to podcasts.
I listen to stories of other women who have lost children, a lot of them through similar circumstances. Hearing their stories makes me feel less alone. Less like I had this horrible thing happen to me that I can't talk about.
Emily Rapp says about her son's terminal illness that writing wouldn't save Ronan but it might save her and that's how I feel. That's why I so relentlessly and passionately tell the truth.
But here's the thing about telling the truth: when I write something it goes out into the world and other people can form their own opinions on it. I feel brave and honest and free when I write these hard truths, like the truth behind my medically necessary abortion or the truth about needing to be on medication for my anxiety, but when other people read the words they don't always see the bravery and the freedom that goes into the truth telling.
I am realizing not everyone can be capable of holding space for me.
Trap door.
Listening to people's stories, and truth telling, it makes me feel like I can breathe again. For a minute I feel like I'm not alone in having the worst thing happen to me.
And then something happens. Someone doesn't or can't understand or support me. The lady at town hall tells me I have to muzzle my dog because she's aggressive without having met her. The receptionist at the doctors office tells me how excited I must be to be past the first trimester.
And everything collapses. And I can't breathe. And I want to throw away all the truth telling done by myself and others because it all reminds me I'm in this club I never wanted to be in.
My baby died.
...
I wrote because I didn't know what else to do with this ache inside me. I couldn't speak it to my closest friends, so I wrote his story. I posted it on the internet. I thought that was everything I knew about him. I put it on a blog. Maybe someone will read it, maybe someone will understand...
I read about tears in the produce department. I wrote about my fears and anxieties and loves and revelations. I wrote like no one but babyloss folk were reading, and sometimes I wrote like they weren't even reading. I wrote with a kind of freedom that is both naïve and slightly endearing...
Writing publically about grief and pain and the darkest parts of losing your child remains both incredibly comforting and absolutely terrifying.
I wrote because I had no idea what else to do. I wrote because my friends didn't call and I couldn't call them. I wrote because I needed a community, to feel normal, to feel worthy of compassion. But it came with a steep price...
After everyone left, something dark and ego filled, sensitive and critical, drunk and capable of sobriety, redemption and forgiveness emerged.
I did the best I could. I sit with who I am now, a human being worthy of compassion.
Italicized quotations taken from Ghost Town essay by Angie Yingst.
That's how I feel. You think the worst thing that can ever happen to a person happened to you... and then the things keep coming.
I had a meltdown in front of town hall today that wasn't really about what everyone thought it was about. I went to register our dog and ended up encountering problems because one of the breeds listed on her adoption file was pitbull, and if she's pitbull there's a ton of other hoops we have to jump through which include a higher fence and having her muzzled every time she leaves the house. And I was outraged that people can discriminate against dogs like that and assume all pitbulls are violent (If you've met our dog she is the sweetest thing) and I am not going to treat our dog like she did anything wrong when she hasn't. I wanted to grab her and protect her and keep her safe and make sure she was treated fairly. I immediately went into fight or flight mode, and to anyone else it would have seemed like I was overreacting.
this wasn't about keeping my dog safe (though it was about that too.)
It was about the fact that I couldn't keep my son safe. And people can say whatever they want about me but the moment my child gets brought into it those fierce instincts come up. His memory is the only thing I can protect.
...
I was planning on writing a post about anxiety. How I was diagnosed (understandably) with severe anxiety after everything happened (or perhaps I always had anxiety and this just pushed everything to the surface, which is most likely) and there is medication and different things I do to help manage it.
I was going to write about the stigma surrounding mental illness, because I like writing about controversial things remember?
And then I realized that wasn't the story I wanted to write. Not because it doesn't matter. Mental health and how we view it matters significantly. But because I don't want to be an advocate. I don't want to share my truth and then fight for people to accept them.
I want my life back. I want to feel like I can breathe again. I want an alternate reality in which I could have been pregnant and healthy and picking out baby clothes and things for the nursery instead of picking out the blanket my son will be buried with.
...
But then more people leave. And fighting for my dog reminds me of fighting for my child which reminds me of fighting for myself and I have a breakdown outside of town hall in which I can't breathe and my mechanic's wife calms me down.
...
I haven't gone back to work yet. This is the first week I've been stable and without tubes. My days consist of walking our dog, spending time with her in the yard, doing some gentle yoga, writing and listening to podcasts.
I listen to stories of other women who have lost children, a lot of them through similar circumstances. Hearing their stories makes me feel less alone. Less like I had this horrible thing happen to me that I can't talk about.
Emily Rapp says about her son's terminal illness that writing wouldn't save Ronan but it might save her and that's how I feel. That's why I so relentlessly and passionately tell the truth.
But here's the thing about telling the truth: when I write something it goes out into the world and other people can form their own opinions on it. I feel brave and honest and free when I write these hard truths, like the truth behind my medically necessary abortion or the truth about needing to be on medication for my anxiety, but when other people read the words they don't always see the bravery and the freedom that goes into the truth telling.
I am realizing not everyone can be capable of holding space for me.
Trap door.
Listening to people's stories, and truth telling, it makes me feel like I can breathe again. For a minute I feel like I'm not alone in having the worst thing happen to me.
And then something happens. Someone doesn't or can't understand or support me. The lady at town hall tells me I have to muzzle my dog because she's aggressive without having met her. The receptionist at the doctors office tells me how excited I must be to be past the first trimester.
And everything collapses. And I can't breathe. And I want to throw away all the truth telling done by myself and others because it all reminds me I'm in this club I never wanted to be in.
My baby died.
...
I wrote because I didn't know what else to do with this ache inside me. I couldn't speak it to my closest friends, so I wrote his story. I posted it on the internet. I thought that was everything I knew about him. I put it on a blog. Maybe someone will read it, maybe someone will understand...
I read about tears in the produce department. I wrote about my fears and anxieties and loves and revelations. I wrote like no one but babyloss folk were reading, and sometimes I wrote like they weren't even reading. I wrote with a kind of freedom that is both naïve and slightly endearing...
Writing publically about grief and pain and the darkest parts of losing your child remains both incredibly comforting and absolutely terrifying.
I wrote because I had no idea what else to do. I wrote because my friends didn't call and I couldn't call them. I wrote because I needed a community, to feel normal, to feel worthy of compassion. But it came with a steep price...
After everyone left, something dark and ego filled, sensitive and critical, drunk and capable of sobriety, redemption and forgiveness emerged.
I did the best I could. I sit with who I am now, a human being worthy of compassion.
Italicized quotations taken from Ghost Town essay by Angie Yingst.
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