Warning, angsty post ahead. Not quite as angsty as the 5th Harry Potter book, but still pretty bad. I’ll lighten up later. Promise.
I’m doing alright now. I’ve finally stopped bleeding. Miscarriage is no longer my first thought upon waking. I can interact with people generally well. Yup, I do okay.
Until I’m suddenly, violently NOT okay.
I haven’t felt this emotionally unstable since middle school. I hope this is due more to fluctuating hormones than an actual loss of sanity as I believed it was yesterday. But underneath feeling okay, I’m steaming, screaming angry. I begged God for this one to work. But knowing that shit happens, I begged that if it HAD to end, it would end early.
Not a few short weeks before my second trimester. Not after I had thought of names and wrote it letters and saw its heart beat. Not after I had become so stupidly attached.
But I believe God is a parent. Not some nebulous higher being, but a parent. And like any petulant middle schooler, I’m comfortable being angry with my parents. So even though it’s not The Proper Way to Behave, I direct my angst and anger at my heavenly father. It’s either that or lie. Or ignore him. Right now the only way I know how to show love is to be honest. I know it must sound heretical and blasphemous, but I have stopped caring. If I try to be the way I’m supposed to be, I find that I’m not genuine.
And believe it or not, God can still send revelation and insight even when you’re mad at him. As long as you’re still telling him you’re mad at him. Last night I was angrypraying, and wailing inaudibly that he took such happiness away from me. When I realized that despite everything, I had been happy. Those pregnant weeks were some of the happiest in my life. And if it had ended sooner, I would not have experienced them. So even though I’m angry, I’m thankful.
I had 10 weeks. I just need 30 more next time.