Wednesday, August 4, 2010


May 2010 -

I’m here in front of the computer, on the verge of tears, yet giddy. That’s my existence, of late. Bipolar. One moment, I’m enticed by the freedom of not being pregnant and by the possibilities that lie ahead. I think about all the things I’ve put on hold in my life and see now as the opportunity to reclaim those opportunities that I’ve always thought of as pieces to my identity. On the other end of my bipolar spectrum is the desire to have another child. Right now, out of self-preservation, I am avoiding the issue in my head. It is pervasive and I know I’m not avoiding it. The loss is insistent and ever present. It edges in on the rest of my thoughts – coloring them and changing them. Still, I won’t meet the thought head on, because I just don’t want to cry. I just don’t want to right now, and every time I begin to allow myself to think about the fact that I’m not going to have a baby in November and allow myself to think about the loss our family has been dealt, the tears come from the pit of my stomach. It’s easier to focus on what I CAN do now and push down the bad.

The coping isn’t all bad. One of the indulgences I’m reclaiming is my writing. I’ve always identified myself as a “writer”, though I’ve never written for anyone but myself. Let me rephrase that. I think any true writer only writes for him/herself and just hopes someone can be touched by his/her words. I’ve never attempted to get published. Anyway – the fact that I’m writing, and I’m writing through this loss and time of transition will inevitably lead me back to facing the hole head on. Writing will just archive the process. Writing will also expedite the process, because writing is an exercise where your thoughts speak to you and lead you to your reality. There are no shortcuts. There is no denial. Only truth. It’s free and highly effective therapy.

Why have I considered myself a writer, aside from my love affair with grammar? Because my life is a constant narrative. It’s as if I’m telling my story all day every day. It reminds me of a voice over in a movie. My thoughts interpreted, twisted in my head as events happen around me. Retelling my story, my way. I attempt to relate those events to my life, even if they are my life. I’ve always felt like I was in the third row of the movie theater watching my life on screen. Never on stage – never the star – always the narrator. So stuck in my head and my thoughts that sometimes I miss out on important scenes. It’s exhausting and either the source of my anxiety or the symptom. I haven’t figured out which, and I probably never will.


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