Fast

Life is going by really fast.

I can't believe it has been nearly 8 months since I gave birth to and said goodbye to my sons. On the one hand, it feels like we are worlds away from where we were right after the loss, and positively light years away from the breezy happy pregnancy we once had. On the other hand, when I see a twin stroller roll by, or when a certain song plays, or a certain mood hits, I feel the loss as acutely as when it first happened.

Lately, hormones are kicking my ass. It has been a whole two months since miscarriage number 2, but I am deep in hormone hell. Something unexpected comes my way through the mail, or on the phone, or on the e-mail: an unexpected medical bill, or a bit of insensitivity from the outside world, and I start crying and I don't stop for hours. I feel raw, unprotected, vulnerable.

I walk through our neighborhood to try to regain my equilibrium: a moving meditation. I count my steps and try to breath in for 8, hold for 8, breath out for 8. It works for a moment: it is just the pavement slipping by and the rhythm of my step and the feeling of my breath, held in my chest, bursting, against my will, to come out.

But then the thoughts come in again, rhythmic like my steps; "I hate myself. I hate my life. I hate myself. I hate my life." I almost don't notice them come in, so insidious and subtle is the chant of my misery, my loss, my empty womb, my empty house.

"1, 2, 3, 4, I hate my, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, I hate, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, I ha.., 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 1, 2 ..."

I fight for control over my mind as I push past the children shrieking and running on the playground. Tears drip off my face as I focus on my marching feet, the pavement moving, so fast it all blurs together. The boys, the miscarriages, our current struggles, all blurred together. And moving so fast, while I feel stuck in slow motion with it all rushing through me, knocking me down as it races on.