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.


“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.




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.


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.


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.


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.

broken building blocks

I realize that I should be able to control myself in regard to attitude, behavior, emotions, etc., but sometimes I just can’t.
Today is one of those days. This was supposed to be a good day regardless of what I knew prior to going to sleep.

Without fail though brick walls began building their boundaries and I am the one that lives within these borders.
I can’t tell who the orders are coming from only that there is an ominous tone to all things. The who or the what that governs our decisions and provides little markers of measurement tallying up to what becomes us is askew and misinformed. At least, mine is.

However, I don’t just leave it at that. I have to dig in and sift around to expose the roots. Indeed, the goal must be to trace the lineage of pain that the limbs shoot foliage of inconsistencies from.
That exposure though, that uncovering, sends a chill through the vines, our deepest parts are vulnerable. Also, viewable. I try to put each particle in its personal Petri dish for further observation.

Pain is putrid and it multiplies. It is seen perusing around and around each element of action and pushing the edges closer and tighter together. The blur of its rapid attempt to attach fragments of fret to every single string of our hearts is infuriating. Putting this parasite into a timeline and dissecting its power under pressure eludes to what parameters we (I) am working with, or against, for that matter.
It provides perspective. It also opens up the earth and shakes the sediment that surrounds our structures of existence.

There is a warning. It comes across each division and sub shoot of our growing system. It disguises itself as a tool to tend to the digging up of decay. With each thrusting of the spade it carves seemingly unnoticeable nicks in the casings of our membranous earth holdings. This creates constant infliction of trace infections every time these roots of reckoning try to reach further into a safe hold, its foundation.

As I am trying to germinate myself into a new garden there is one constant in this growing zone……
I am already an established organism and my building blocks are working overtime with the intention of new development. With every ground I think I am breaking new, I am reminded that only extensions of me can attempt to gain structure and that each reach further stretches those nicks into marks that end up becoming quite visible and palpable on the surface. Every outside element rains a penetrating reminder of pain and it courses through the etchings as though it was predesigned as such.

he knows

the age of someone often dictates to us what we may think their extent of knowledge is. we are selling the young short. in fact, i genuinely believe that they know more than we – adults – do.
while in the hospital, Solomon’s world got flipped upside down. the only time he had ever been away from me was just a few weeks earlier. my husband and i had an overnight celebration of our anniversary and my in-laws came and watched the children. so although solomon had his first night without me, he was still in the comforts of his home. so this last couple weeks has totally twisted his reality of comfort and normalcy. he has been here, there, and everywhere except at home with his family, going to sleep in his bed.
i noticed while we were in the hospital that he would kind of rub this tip of his nose with his little finger and fuss. i am not sure why, but i really took note of that as it was something i had never seen him do before. his attitude grew into a monstrous amount of squealing and whining, grunting and fussing, yelling and frustration. and we would all say, “well he sees us sad and crying and can see that something is going on,” and we would all agree that he is aware that something was happening, but maybe did not truly grasp the fact that his baby sister was not coming home with us, and that she died.
he met her. he held her hand. he sat on my lap while she shared that same space as we said goodbye to her. he was there for her last breath. he was there for the crying out, the heartbreak, the wailing. yes, some of you might think that it was too much to have a little one there, or any of the children for that matter. but in reality, it is all part of it. they deserved to be there, they had the right to experience all that they could of their baby sister. they needed to share the reason for grieving and hopefully healing. they needed to understand. at least what was understandable.
but did Solomon really understand? yes, he saw and felt all the emotions that we were all exuding, but did he understand that she was now dead and we will never see her again? does he see why his mom cries everyday and sometimes most of the day?
yesterday i began to understand that yes, he does indeed, understand. we were laying in my bed, the same one that i go to sleep in angst in, the same one that i labored in with my daughter when the cord prolapsed, the same one that i have to see everyday in the same room that my nightmare began… and he pointed over to Archaea’s memory quilt. the children all had put their handprints on this quilt that also has Archaea’s hands and footprints. He pointed to Freedom’s hand – “bubby’s”, pointed to his, “mine,” pointed to vaeas, i said “vaea’s,” then i pointed to Archaea’s and asked him whose they are. He said, “sissy’s.” He knew whose they were. He did not ask further about it or her. we put the quilt away. he knows that the heartbeat recording in my pink bear is “sissy’s” but does not ask where she is.
this morning as i was trying to get into the shower, i turned on pandora music. the first time i have wanted to listen to music for over two weeks now (which was short lived – too much pain) it was a christian station that was on there and the song “be held” was on and i just sat on the bathroom floor crying. solomon came to the door and i held out my arms for him to sit with me… he looked at me, started rubbing his nose with his little finger, and tears started welling in his eyes. he started bawling. he started wailing. he sat down in my lap and just cried and cried and cried with me. we just held each other and cried, deep meaningful, painful sobbing. maybe more than i do, he knows.

the call.

warning – possibly graphic and explicit –
my husband says i am doing well. i don’t feel like it.
but i more than appreciate his love and support…
you never know how much you love your spouse until you lose a child together.
you never really know what would cause you to crumble or become stronger.
i have never loved so much in my entire life the way i love now.
yes, i have my three beautiful children that uplift me and keep me going,
my husband is the one who gets me.
he is the one that somehow makes life a little more tolerable and keeps me wanting to live.
i owe my life to him.
my mom has been a solid rock for me, which i am so sorry that she even has to go through this too.
i mean, our parents lost a grandchild, that is no light task to take care of the falling apart souls all the while theirs are tearing too.
they ache each day also.
all the support from our family, friends, community,….
outstanding and has shown us the hearts of many, for which we are eternally grateful. thank you.
please don’t forget us.
please let others know that may not be online so that when we do decide to step out in public functions we don’t get people coming up to us asking where our baby is.
because she is ….
i hate life so much right now. i know its “normal.”
but that doesn’t make it any better.
i hate that my beautiful friends are bringing beautiful babies into this world, and mine did not make it.
i hate that i hate that.
i hate that i cannot find joy in their joy, but still i love them all so much.
i hate that my husband has to go to work and somehow be a normal functioning human while shit gets thrown in his face that make his heart ache. i hate that i am so sad and broken that it hurts his heart too. i hate is such a strong declaration, and something we teach our kids not to say or utilize in expression –
but they have been given a free pass to hate.
i cry everyday.
sometimes little bursts. sometimes an hour at a time. sometimes i just sit around in a stupor and ponder what i am even doing. i am beyond angry everyday.
i try to keep it contained and in perspective, but i am angry.
angry. angry. angry. angry. angry. angry. fucking angry.
i could not bear the idea of seeing a little baby casket being lowered into the ground. honestly, caskets of dead people decaying creep me out.
we decided to return her to ash and dust. but now when i think of it i wonder how that even made sense to me. when i think about the process of how it happens, i am mortified. either way was a lose lose situation.
but i couldn’t….
can’t she just be suspended in heavenly form and her body just become ethereal? have you ever had to pick out an urn?
for a baby?
yeah that is some fucked up shit. standing in this little cave of hatred and disgust, disbelief, and the whole time just saying – what the fuck?- picking out something that is going to be in your home to constantly remind you of the nightmare. yet you cannot dare to not have her close. have you ever had to sign a death certificate the same week you signed a birth certificate? yeah that is messed up. how the fuck is any of this actually real and happening?
my new normal is a fucked up version of me.
a version where right now i cannot do anything but think about it all the time. i cannot yet do much physically to help my mind be busy because it causes me too much physical pain the next day.
another reminder.
my body, ripped apart from the head to my uterus.
torn apart from surgery and angst. physiologically fucked up as i get milk coming in that should be going to my beautiful baby girl and is not. so i await it to go away. i had considered donating it, but the emotional pain was too much to continue. after all, we already gave away her organs. why do i need to give her milk away too. close to 7pm on sunday september 4th our daughter Archaea saved a life. her life was already given away, why do i need to give my milk too? i don’t.
i will maybe forever feel foreign in my own body, soul, heart.
she will be home with us soon.
i got the call.
i thought maybe i was doing better today, until i got the call. i remember now that this nightmare is not over. maybe never will be. the anger resurfaced (as if it was going away) and my sadness consumes me. i cried for a long while and could only apologize to Archaea that I failed her. yes that is the ultimate feeling i have.
i failed her, and there is nothing that can be done about it.
my job as a mother, and i couldn’t do it. – these things happen – that’s right, “it wasnt my fault” but you will never convince me of that.
Archaea Elore –
the Archeia is the female divinity of the Archangels. Elore is from my grandmother’s name Hannelore. A strong purposeful name, that evidently meant she was going to heaven to do her work there.
too awesome to be here on the earth. literally an angel with a purpose that i will never understand.
literally an angel. our butterfly baby. i love you