I never grieved.
I never did that. I was locked in my own agony for two days solid, wandering around in a sea of horror, but I never grieved properly. I was never allowed to feel bad with him so I was not allowed to grieve.
There was life sparked in me. I held it between my hips, I cradled it into life unconsciously, I breathed and fed it oxygen and love. I had a chance to do what I have always wanted to do- hear a cry and scoop my precious one into my arms, hold tight, breathe in that scent of milk and something special. I wanted that, and I couldn’t see that it had begun in me.
Instead of testing and realising, instead of counting missed pills and thinking of weeks, I cried. I was bleeding in my heart long before the real blood ever came. I was dragging my mangled self through broken glass, every one of his words revealed as a lie. My insides were bathed in acid and I wanted to scream, but shock placed its calm mask across this burning sea of torment and I was forced to smile by memories of his expectations.
Instead of growth, and joy, and calm, there was a withering and death. I remember thinking that the pain couldn’t possibly get worse, but it did. I remember thinking that I couldn’t keep losing all this blood, but I did. I wanted to scream and panic but instead I cleaned myself up, swiping bloodstains off my legs, and curled up in the corner of my room.
I was going crazy, wasn’t I? People like me didn’t have miscarriages because they didn’t deserve children.
But the symptoms fit. My laptop’s cold screen told me so. I stared.
It was pain worse than the break up at first. I went into meltdown in the corner of my room, rocking and begging something out there to please make it stop, because I couldn’t hurt any more. The pain in my heart and the pain in my womb conspired to make the agony worse than any I’d ever had. I wanted an end and nearly considered this being the end of me, but the vain hope of getting him back stopped that.
I went into shock the next day. I was still bleeding clumps of blood, stuff that had once been alive. I was so selfishly absorbed in my own pain that I couldn’t see my own child fighting for survival. I was a bad person and would have been an even more terrible mother.
I have a vivid memory of sitting on the couch in the living room and searching for signs of miscarriage on the internet. My dad was listening to something I’d never heard before- I know now it was Allegri’s Miserere Mei. I ached. I felt hot tears flow down my face.
How can I have not seen my little one inside me? How could I have not seen the first life I’d ever created? I felt almost like I’d snuffed it out myself, but I know that his abandonment and my grief played their parts. I did nothing wrong, but my little one knew they would never last in such a cruel world.
The music broke me, as it breaks me now. I can’t hear it without crying. I can’t be in the same room as it or I feel that pain again. I should have a three year old child now. I should have this little crazy bundle of joy running around with dinosaurs and my puppy and missing his old dog and wishing that he was a horse or a wolf or wanting to be in space. She might have been a little girl, watching Noggin the Nog for the thousandth time and pretending she was following them into the cave where the dragon hid, or flying kites with me, or cuddling with my sister as she read her a bedtime story. I would have told my child stories of London, where Auntie R lives. My child would have seen videos of me dancing, taught Juno new tricks, refused to eat her or his greens and lived and breathed and loved.
I have empty arms and a heart that misses what I never had and never will have again. I can’t afford to have children, suspecting as strongly as I do that I have bipolar disorder and knowing that my PTSD can send me spiralling into despair. I don’t want to put my child through watching mummy suffer and then experiencing the same thing. I don’t want to watch my child for the mania, the depression, the self harm and the pain of bullying. I know life is full of all sorts, but I don’t want my child to get the same end of the stick as I did. No more.
My baby, oh god. I miss you. I wish I could have kissed you. I wish I could have counted my little one’s tiny fingers and toes, played hopscotch in the rain just for the hell of it, put you to bed and cuddled you. I wish it was possible to just experience that with you. Even the frustrations and sadnesses of watching you grow up… I want that right now and I will never have it.
I hurt so much right now. I am still crying and I want to know whether I will ever feel any less tormented over this. It’s as if I opened a raw wound in my heart and it’s bleeding fire into my throat and lungs.
Inside, I feel so empty. I feel empty and lost. I still want to scream, but the house is silent and everyone is sleeping.