by admin
On a not so parallel path under a different shifting of circumstances today would’ve been number eight. The eighth birthday of my kid.
[Here is where I type a sentence, hit backspace, start typing again, and hit backspace once more. Rinse and repeat.]
This is where the scar tissues rises, my keloid mountains. Spreads far enough and stops, a slight halo of dead space around it. Time doesn’t change the general impact, though the pain is gone—that blinding dragging loss that buried me for months upon months, when I would run to the backroom of my work place and sob when faced with the sight of a baby. The same for television appearances by pregnant women—the night I excused myself to the bedroom and sat in the floor of my closet. Wailed. I was nineteen years old. I cannot explain that pain. It is a loss and many people tell you that you have to mourn it as such. Time has passed and I can’t say I’ve felt a pain like that since. Something hormonal, emotional, physical, so different. Dealing with a body going backwards. I felt such a loathing for myself and for the world around me, as if failing at the ultimate thing. However, it’s interesting—knowing now that this grand “failure” saved my life. No question.
It’s one of those things. I think of that day in January and this day in August in terms of numbers, and that’s it. I used to do something to honor them in some fashion but I can’t bring myself to do it anymore. Honoring started to feel like dwelling. And how do you honor something so painful yet necessary, in regards to the phrase, “it happened.” I know that sometimes the reason for things occurring is simply that there isn’t a reason, and that lack of reason is the best thing for us, whether we know it or not. It seems that the best way to honor it? Is to just keep on living life forward.
That’s all I will say here. The rest is for some place else.