Today is hard. It isn’t any special day. I don’t know why. I’m so angry, and so sad, and so very lonely.

I never had something so bad happen that couldn’t be fixed. It isn’t like I lived some charmed, pain-free life. Far from it. Lots of terrible, painful things have happened in my life. I’ve mourned, I’ve grieved, I’ve cried, I’ve learned…but all of it was something I could “get better” from. But you being gone–it’s un-fixable.

Sometimes its like I’m pregnant with your memory–I can no more put you down and walk away from you than when you were safe inside me. I can’t feel your kicks in my belly anymore; now you kick in my heart. You’re here but you’re gone and you’re never coming back.

I’m trying to clean the bedroom today–I need to put away the maternity clothes, but I can’t bring myself to. The sight of them brings pain, but the thought of folding them up and putting them away doesn’t feel right either. I hate almost all my clothes–I don’t really fit in anything. I’ve gained more weight in my pain than when I was carrying you. I’m eating like a defiant child, not really caring what goes into my body. If I’m not nourishing you it’s like I can’t see a reason to nourish me. Don’t have much more appetite than when you were here, but sometimes I find myself eating to fill the void. I feel ugly and fat in everything–and in mortal terror that someone will think I’m still pregnant.

I can’t seem to move in any direction right now. I feel guilty for sitting in my pain, listening to music that makes me cry, brings the dull gnawing ache to a clarity, in hopes that this too shall pass. But sometimes I feel guilty when I’m not sad; I question my own happiness when it comes, doubt my own peace when I find it.

I am more aware of magic because of you. A bird landing in a tree, a deer seen unexpected in someone’s yard, rainbows, snow in the springtime, beautiful clouds; when you were still here, I saw them and thought they were miracles just like you. Now that you’re gone, you’re in every beautiful thing I see. Often it’s a comfort, but there are moments that I cry that you’ll never see them. Never point out something mundane with your child’s wonder, never squeal with joy at the sight of a soap bubble, never chase a butterfly. The list of things you won’t do aches.

And I’m so angry. I want you back. I want the innocent faith that nothing truly bad could happen to us. I don’t want to be grateful sometimes. I want to scream, to yell and swear. Why couldn’t we be normal? Why did there have to be some genetic specter lying in wait? Why does it still have to be there, threatening any siblings you might someday have? Why does something so normal as having a baby have to rest on the edge of a coin toss?

Sometimes I feel like there’s some greater plan at work.

Sometimes I want to kick the shit out of whoever planned it.