avoiding the void

the other day, i was staring out of the window at the trees swaying in the breeze.  it was a sunny day.  beautiful, fall-like.  i stood there for several minutes, unable to move, as if i were paralyzed.  perhaps i was listening -- for the sound of the wind whistling through the trees, the birds chattering, insects buzzing.  but there was nothing.

 

silence.

 

each day, i crave for the quiet, wish for solitude.  not the can't-get-out-of-bed kind, or wanting-to-curl-up-and-cry-all-day kind, but more like the going-through-the-motions, wishing-i-could-stop-my brain kind.

 

it's like standing at that window -- the world goes on, but i'm stuck in this place, watching life happen around me.

 

i've felt this void ever since i left the hospital, a hollowness that grows as my body heals itself.  sometimes i would catch myself absentmindedly rubbing my belly, almost like a soothing gesture.  other times i would mind my belly when i was bending over, or buckling myself in, then remembering that my belly was no longer there.  every day i would lose another pound, and as i gradually ease towards my pre-pregnancy weight i feel an overwhelming sadness.  a finality.  because once i stopped getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, once i was able to roll over  comfortably on my side, once i didn't need to eat every two hours because of my protesting stomach, i knew it was really over.

 

i want to move forward, but am not quite sure how.  so i get up every day and get through it.  facing people seems like an impossible feat, but our families and close friends have been persistent in visiting, which have been welcome distractions.  although i've told my mom not to, she's been coming twice a week to spend the days with me.  we talk a lot and go for long walks, and it was only recently that i realized she needs our time together as much as i do.  that she and my dad and our families are going through this too -- that our loss is their loss.  our children.  their grandchildren, our sisters' first niece and nephew.

 

the days pass slowly, filled with books and bad TV and a to-do list i created to keep myself occupied.  and then there are the nights.  i'll go to bed and spend several hours taming my wild thoughts, but the sting of tears still come, hot and rushed and heavy.

 

that's how i know avoidance doesn't work.

 

and so i have to let it all in -- in order to let it all out.