The only way out is through

First, there were tears. Stormy, wrenching sobs that didn’t last long. They were quickly brushed-off, and replaced by all-too-comfortable denial, strengthened by a powerful suppression of feeling, because, you know, one must go on.

One didn’t. Instead, there was a meltdown triggered by trivia. Unavoidable understanding of the underlying cause led to withdrawal and retreat. Time out to lick wounds and heal, albeit superficially.

And so went the body as did the mind, laid waste by an ailment that rendered it completely silent for days on end. So long that I wondered whether I’d ever speak again, the darkly superstitious parts of me fearing that here was an unmistakeable sign from the universe telling me in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up you useless neurotic cunt for good. And I lay indoors and I listened to the universe and I flayed myself, body and soul, all under the guise of recovery.

But then, there was inadvertent and unexpected therapy, of all things. Ten hours of it. And try as I might I could not suppress my feelings any longer, but had to form them into words, and speak of them, bringing my grief over my loss out into the open. Where I could look at it, and acknowledge that I did have reason to mourn. And allow myself to fully do so at last.

Finally, there was much-needed rest, true recovery. A week of feeding my body and my mind wholesomely and well. A week of early nights in which there were hours of genuinely restorative sleep. A week that eventually saw the full return of much-missed, unalloyed joy.

So, here I am again, restored to myself at last. Fairly certain that I’m not pregnant – I tried to make sure of that this month, thinking that a child didn’t deserve to be conceived by a woman who still harboured hostile feelings to her uterus. (Although equally, it has seemed at times as though my uterus has retained hostile feelings of its own towards me.) But I am finally back, sense of humour and potty-mouth fully intact, and still looking askance at all things purposefully planned conception-wise.

As for this, I did not intend to write of this; it seemed easier to forget the darkness that has already lingered too long and skip lightly on. But had anyone told me previously that it would take me three full weeks to recover from the loss of a pregnancy whose existence was only proven 48 hours before it was reabsorbed into the ether from whence it came, and of whose demise I was already dreadfully certain 24 hours into that 48, I would never have believed them.

Believe me.

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