silent strings

the dictation is super strong even though there are no words, there is no song…. the chords that are not playing overtake the audio and the audience sits applauding, oh the intensity of the spectators felt triple fold the under the pressure of the encores and the lighters waving around and putting it all under the light and all over again, these feelings, having to fight back the emotions but they are always in control so the are just let loose and maybe will present some healing, i am hopeful….. but while the smile on the face of the one tearing it all down walks around flaunts around there is more stone thrown on the ground and it is crushed by the “greater” and “better,” what will never be built …. forced to watch a structure be remade by architectural guilt, in a world that is conditioned by hurt and making sandcastles out of the driest of dirt… foundationally impossible and yet still it is tried, and it is failed.. and it is swept under the rug and declared clean and repaired, fully detailed. on the outside appearance it is fresh and giving young and determined and the crumbling remnants are left to the mouse with nothing, troubling…..how much so little it appears to one, to the other is much, too heavy, the smallest of items to some are checkmarked too large a burden to carry, on the backs and the hands and the hearts of the wounded loved, no matter how high i try to rise above, there is a constant leveling a spiritual unsettling and bringing down of elevations, and there is less of me and more of the jealousy and less understanding and more impractical demandings of my heart to understand and move on and be free, and it still looks down and sees the strings ….

Better yet?

I guess I just felt that I should have more closure today. Instead I find myself diving further into the unknowns… I go there frequently and sometimes resurface from the depths with a new understanding of the foreign entities I have encountered. I have made more friends with the oddities and theories than not, as of late. While I explore in this spiritual and transcendental in-betweens, I have learned that there is still so much more to be seen that could never be spotted by the laymen human plateau that is often referred to as the heart…

I thought that I would feel differently now. Perhaps I feel that people feel I should feel differently by now. But, I don’t. I remember about four weeks after Archaea passed that I had a day that I woke up and didn’t cry. I thought, that’s it, I’m done crying now apparently and I have this grieving thing over with….. It wasn’t much further into the day that I bawled. Same thing happened about 3 months into it. Again at 5, 7, 8, 10 months…. Then the anniversary week came fast and relentless… So naturally, at one year and three days, I assured myself that I was good, and that now I can move on, breathe… What better time for me to be done with all the pain and sorrow and crazy? A year has come and while others are only reminded because perhaps of my constant reminder that is my being, I remember everyday. We all know that.

So I sit in this struggle. The battle forging between my soul and my soul to be… Whomever it is that I am going to become next is strongly weighted with the iron boots cast on from the previous battle of who I was before. Of course I see the waging of war within myself. Of course I want peace. However, the only way to know peace is to know chaos… or so they say.. … Whoever they are anyway.

I will never know here in the space I am what the space prior was or what my future space will be. I don’t know if I will ever return to myself or evolve into a more enlightened version of myself, but I do know, that I have become more accepting of myself with the feelings I have. I am free to be stagnant, I am free to flow, and only I at the time that I am who I am, can determine what I will do, be, think, feel…..

And today, I am angry. Again or still… and that is absolutely beautiful…

one week, again

In one week I will be trying to honor Archaea on her day of birth….

In one week I will be trying to keep it together for her brothers and sister, so they too can honor her, if they so choose….

In one week I will be desparately clinging to anything I can find holding some semblance of peace or love…

In one week I will be reliving last year (as if I don’t daily) mentally over and over again….

In one week I will no doubt be overwhelmed and dissatisfied on how I chose to honor her should have been 1 year birthday…..

In one week the day that has been trudging through my mind over and over will whirl away as fast as I can think of it…..

In one week I will be so terribly sad and trying terribly to get the “should have beens” out of my mind….

In one week I will be devastated and horrified that we will not be honoring this time together as a family….

In all the days that have been passing as this day approaches I have been learning….

In all these days leading up, I have been preparing….

In all these days coming through I have passed through with them again desperately trying to find the love and hold that….

In all these days I have battled to do so….

In all these days I am learning to honor Archaea I am also wondering what that even means….

On this day I have broke down more times than I care to admit…

On this day I have been more angry than recent…

On this day I saw how much my children love me regardless of my anger…

On this day I realized that there was more of me that could still be broken, since the day he said goodbye ….

On this day I saw that I am certain I may never heal from this beyond brokeness…

On this day I decided that this process is my way of honoring her and that is raw…

In this moment I am lost, but still looking for a compass

the Tolerance of Crazy

“We are all a little crazy… it’s just what kind of crazy can you tolerate..”
This was a topic in a conversation I was blessed to have today…

It’s true.

We are all crazy. We all have our issues and baggage and common droppings of batshit that cover our crazies. I guess that is why I write. To eliminate the intensity of the ideas or the insistency of which my brain urges me to operate. Regardless of how much I write or talk or think about the overbearing thoughts in my brain, it still doesn’t relieve me of the moments when I just need to scream or cry or disappear. Those moments are as unpredictable as they are predictable. I have especially learned within the last couple of weeks just how vulnerable I am within the confines of my own cell, trying to break the bars. It feels as though I am reaching through the slats just close enough to make the key chain of freedom dangle, but not quite within full grasp. So as I watch it swaying I become hypnotized envisioning what that freedom looks like.

It looks like this….

The girl who sits behind the veil of her own shade and is welcomed at that nature and not forced to be in the light.

The girl who disappears behind the nightshade of her own shadows now steps into the light and never casts a shadow.

And still that girl will wax and wane and the world will sway with her song and maybe even attempt to hum along to her song.

Just a little bit of what freedom looks like.

Sometimes.

“Overall that is the epitome of what it means to be me, or in my company. While I sift through the definitions of what “is” and redefine what it means to “be,” I reflect and am reminded of my vulnerability. What is the tolerance level that equates and vibrates with my personal mental tyranny? ……. “

still screaming, silently

We just go on day by day. Well, I mean, you do. You think I do. You see me in the “everday,” so I must be going on too. Moving on. Every one just moves on. So typical. I am in no way judging, it just is what it is….

But today was like it was just yesterday.

To me, it was just yesterday.

How could it not be?

Sometimes I think it gets harder. There are so many expectations of me, and now more.

I just cant even imagine…. could you expect this of yourself?

I have a plan or rather a goal, but I have to reset this goal every day because each day it amounts to a pressure that breaks me down. Again, I have to rebuild.

This just happened yesterday because I have to live it every day. Each day I wake up, and all three of my earthside children wake up, I, remember the one who never woke up…..

That Switch

It must be when the pain reaches an exceedingly high level that the switch is flipped. That nano second of a moment when it no longer matters.

Done.

Gone.

Vanished.

Or maybe vanquished. I am definitely trying to observe myself and what patterns or processing I am making or taking. One thing I am currently noticing is the level of which I should care is as indifferent as the high level of pain.

My switch has been flipped.

I now find myself in a place where I am repulsed by the thoughts that were once my longing and suffering of what I must have pushed myself into believing was love.
Twice my grieving for my daughter has been halted so abruptly to forcibly grieve another twist of fate.

I have spent many days in a state of seeing my grief sitting in a glass shadow box on display. I can see it from all angles and yet I am unable to grasp it. It cannot become my own to encase within my soul. It is the humanity within me and it sits apart from me, and this, is what causes my roboticism. As long as that organ of existential grief is out of its designed receptacle, I suffer from the flipped switch syndrome.

I, am no longer who I was, and yet also coming back to whomever it was I was intended to be and perhaps had a bit of within me so many years ago.

Before.

It has been less than a year. Almost a year. And it was still just yesterday.

I can still feel every ounce of fear, sadness, pain, anger, loss…… everyday. In that less than a year, almost a year, I have also endured a second loss, which is so much like a death, actually twice. And now, having observed my stance on this very shaky and unstable foundation called life, it is bewildering that I am still standing.

Now that I have become the other side of human, I realise that my humanity, the one in a transparent objectification of process, is not grounded to anything. I think that once I can make a human synapse fire in this metal realm I’m in, I can reach to the case and that instant connection will shatter the box and set free, me. My ability to grieve peacefully will return and I will become whole once again, and disconnected from that switch forever more.

Tiny Streams

The disappointment that continues to ensue is beginning to be irreparable. The damage is settling in and pulling up a chair, asking what’s for dinner, making a bed. It knows that it is on a hot trail to its own success. Of course, in the process, completely obliterating any semblance in that aspect, of that particular sanity . The crushing weight of what was supposed to be and what should have been has begun to really stomp all over my dreams. It has found a path through what was supposed to be happiness and has temporarily hijacked the entrance and exit. Blocking hope.

This barricade started out with just little wash outs in the road. Tiny little streams of disarray just trickling over the way, causing brief pauses and little moments of panic. The attempt to keep the direction open and secure was loosely bound up by grains of sand, lightly kicked off the side to plug up that little stream just enough so that it didn’t appear to cross back into our mission. So of course, the mission continued. We pass on by that little trickle of doubt and push on through.

With a long enough journey, especially one that makes you climb and climb, it will inevitably be filled with these little streams along the way. It is expected, it is exciting to overcome those little obstacles, strengthening the climber, building a bit firmer center of existence.

After time though, getting further along, kicking pebbles and sand to fill the gaps…just hop over it. There isnt enough time in the journey to completely build all the boundaries needed to walk this way. It just becomes an unwanted, yet expected, so familiar…. and a nuisance to progress, forward progress. Jumping over these ditches on the rise to the top has now become the trail guide’s recommendation for recovery and quickest route to comfortability.

Pressure begins its due process. Pushing through all the little cracks of the poorly built barriers, the trickling evidence of entropy plots its course. The shift in energy is in the air, it is felt by the rumble of the core. The path is no longer a terrain of sure footing and sacredness. The wash out rolls effortlessly over and through the depths of the ditches, drowning all attempts and efforts of past crusades.

The landscaping of life is now flooded by the inability to work efficiently and in unison with the instructions. An entirety of land washed away, where the roots and the water are one, and there is no ground to ground to. The failing, the endless flailing, the fragments and fear, whirl around with the tide that is stirred by the forgetting to dam the doubts. Damn the doubts.

Floating.

Lifelessly floating with the waves of woe.

In the distance, on the horizon of hope where one day I will be able to walk a path again. Hike to the harmonious collision of dreams and reality. Hike to the hellacious chasms of reality and dreams. Along the way while smelling the fresh new blossoms of chance not forgetting to bring the gear needed to build the dam before the journey.

Compartments

And then there are those times in which you hate everyone who has a baby who survives labor and delivery. It’s this fraction of space and time that occupies or rather seem to invade your lifespan in a blink of existence. Of course you want everyone to survive or transition with ease and as whimsically as possible.

Let’s face it though, it makes me cringe.

Every. Single. Time.

Except for when my best friend had her baby. I anxiously awaited news that her c section went fabulously and that little man was well. Then as soon as I knew all was well, I got remarkably resentful, and not of her (not of baby either). Now it meant that I would forever look at this precious realm of innocence and shroud it with the constant reminders of what we were going to relive again. Our eldest and our youngest… all the firsts our “lasts” were going to share close together… now replaced by all the firsts and all the nevers.

Somehow I have to really compartmentalize all the compartmentalized compartments into even smaller sub compartments to stay sane and claimant on our relationship.

She gracefully understands this process.

This is a gripping effort on ripping away the pain hold  that grief grabs on to, desperately.

It is incredibly frustrating to be angry with someone for just being alive. It’s not really even them though. It is the seemingly blatant disregard for my soul that the “creator” would constantly allow these situations to unfurl at my wounded base. Which, by the way, is at such a weakened state that the slightest breeze, even intended to be comforting, is trembling earth all around. It is natures gamble in regard to whether or not the structure will remain standing. The structure itself has no plan, it just waits.

There is rarely a day that goes by that doesn’t hold a note of laughter sounding off behind my every attempt to breathe quiet to my brain. In every essence of “just be” there is the subtle waft that lingers too, with an “on your guard.” In the constant effort exerting from my everything to enjoy anything, there are equally what seems like exorbitant amounts of endless prodding of my personal patience practice.

And along comes another compartment.

The section where I have to put the realization that there will always be more babies. Also, I am able to love and cherish my best friends baby in a way that i may not have before… Perhaps he will need me in the future and the little box of subconscious resentment (which, i don’t actually resent this baby or his mama – in any way, truly) that has been built into my normal will be quashed and I can let babies be born with a warm heart… but until then, I separate my pain from my love, for his little innocence is the only current hope I have to reclaim love for the cycle of life. And soon, I will no longer be able to provide this type of life cycle, which, I’m building a compartment for as well.

I didn’t know it then, but I do now…  Archaea’s death was not just hers, nor “mine,” but all the little intricacies and interweavings of what life is made from. The vein of life and death are the same and it all flows together. Every movement is intertwined with realities and possibilities and limits, and like energy, we are exchanging each others movements all the time. Thus creating another opportunity to present more pain, confusion, distortion, for every release, focus and clarity.

Every baby’s birth is my baby’s death and the death of me, our lives, reality….

I wait.

I build compartments.

I long to build one to stand on and let birth, babies, and unicorns be my open platform of personal power!

Babies No More

Ever since I returned home from the hospital I have had one looming persistent feeling…..

I can’t have this gaping hole in my heart!

I have literally wanted to have another baby so bad that it consumes a lot of my brain quite often. Bawling at the doctors, bawling in my moms arms, bawling to my best friend. I need to have another baby! I can’t end my childbearing with such a devastating turn of fate.

I can never tell my husband.

So I went through each day wondering……

I also went through each time between periods wondering if maybe this time I wont have my cycle and then I can …..

I have gone through about 5 pregnancy tests since December. Every time swearing that the tickles in my tummy must be flutters of life. Always wrong. Then I am always sad that I was not. ….And always relieved that I was not. See, I don’t really want to have anymore children. I don’t want to go through losing another child.

At this point I am really just waiting for the ball to drop again.

I literally could not handle it. I keep saying that. And yet more just keeps oozing out all over the place. I think of where I am emotionally and sometimes I feel that a successful birth would just fix everything. Of course I know that is not really the case nor outcome, but I still hoped for that release, a sort of relief. To claim victory and say, no! it wasn’t my fault! I guess it doesn’t matter that I have delivered the same natural way three times and all was well and beautiful. Somehow I am still to blame. I get it. Or not. Either way, I will never know and the substantial sadness that encircles all of every aspect of my life will consume any attempt to change it otherwise.

So I have lost my baby.

My husband told me almost right away (maybe more..but my time frame of reference is off for the first few months), he was going to get a vasectomy. We had been talking about it in the past, while I was pregnant. We had decided that no matter what we were done having children. The midwife told us to hold off because….

Well we encountered that because.

When he told me that he was going to go in, I was devastated. I couldn’t even fathom having that option taken away from me. It killed me over and over. And again, it is not that I even really wanted anymore kids, but I couldn’t determine that I had a legitimate solid stance at that point. I just knew I was in pain and needed to know that there was still an option to somehow bring happiness back to a journey that headed to hell quick. Then, he did not end up going in.

We never talked about it again. Really talk about it.

I must have assumed that he felt the same way I did and if I got pregnant then I would be “secretly” happy about it. I yearned for it as much as I dreaded it. He deserves kudos for that. I see that he put aside his fear and pain for me, the opportunity for happy little accidents (that would also ultimately be burdened the whole time by a taunting and dancing of the truth. Death is possible).

But truly, I am so stressed out all the time that there is no way that I could ever really want to bring another baby into this world. I constantly disappoint myself in motherhood as it is that I didn’t want to have to ruin another individuals outlook on life.

Ok enough sap, but seriously, couldn’t even fathom another child. And then I get super sad thinking about losing her all over again. It is endless.

I started deciding to myself a couple of months ago and seriously within the last few weeks about getting my tubes tied. With how my life is, my relationship with my husband had been for the last several months…. Things were spiraling out of control. I knew without a doubt that I could nothave any more littles, and that killed me.

My husband and I recently separated. I  hadn’t had my period yet. So the whole time I kept wondering… talking my body into it and then psyching myself out of it, as if that even mattered. I also have stomach issues that cause nausea often which mimics “morning sickness” in my body… and…. again, semi secretly negotiating with my body  that I was pregnant. That would mean that  we HAD to work and everything would end up in rainbows and rainbow babies…

I lost my daughter. I lost hope. I have lost my husband. I lost hope. I again, was not pregnant, and again, lost hope of whatever twisted ideals are inside my brain of what I think my life should have been like.  He still wants to quash the abilities to reproduce, as do I, and again, I die a little inside.

A thought… I wonder how much more of me there is left to…. essentially die …?

But die I do not.

I rise over and over.

My beautiful living children now need me more than ever. Their lives literally depend on it. I couldn’t allow them to endure any of what might happen, so losing another sibling…. Not even going to risk it. But that hurts. And somehow I have to keep in perspective that maybe a little pain might be better than a lot of pain, which will again happen.

I guess the only thing that really comes out of this -end of childbearing realization- is that I feel like I can’t raise anymore children in addition to the blessings I have because it is not fair to bring another little love into such a place of pain and hate. There is not enough love in our buckets anymore. That hurts.

aww love….

There are so many days that I often wonder why I hate love so much. Then I realized that it will always find some way to cause pain, and that is why I often hate love. Yet, the next day will be filled with so much love, coming from cracks of life and death, and deeply rewarding.

Even on those days, I still choke down all the different concepts and trials that push my ability to continue to love, unconditionally, and in love, go about my life. Things are so progressively different now that it makes even something as simple as defining love, the most exhausting task for the mind and heart to conceptualize.

In conversation I will find myself irritated with simplicity and superficiality and start looking for ways to duck out of it. It wears me down so quickly and the efforts of explaining the why’s or how’s go unheard. Or at least that is how it comes across to my brain. But to be fair, that was often the case prior to losing Archaea. It just wasn’t so quickly triggered until I became aware of how idiotically people will place importance on irrelevant issues.

I think that we all process each experience in life based on our previous experience or observation and that determines how properly on or how far off our rockers we sit. I suppose that is how one becomes the subject of analysis.

Those that are doing the analyzing are also the same ones that perpetuate the insecurities that creep up to the top for topical observation. That in itself is a fascinating conundrum and brings a grieving soul into the cycle of catch 22.

It is those moments precisely that will tell us how we actually facilitate or stifle love and what we are going to do with it again in the future. In situations like ours where you lose a child,  you start to see things through such a darker red lens than the light hearted and free loving rose colored glasses. The vision becomes so muddled by the darkness that was once seen as love, transforming it all. It starts to blur together and that love,… turns into anger.

I often find myself stuck in thought, trying to make sense of anything at all.

Sometimes it all seems so clear.

The how to get through its… And that’s only when I’m trying to help my children work their issues out one by one. Even in those moments though, I can literally hear myself arguing that said logic does not in fact make any difference and in the end, it still hurts.

and in then end…

guess love is still unknown and the unknown is where the what ifs are and the what ifs always cause questioning and pain.