two dimensions

As promised by so many, time is doing it's thing. Passing. Bringing change. Bringing some relief. Scattering new obstacles, pleasures, and distractions along my path.

Tomorrow is her day--though really today is also, as she was a midnight baby. We labored before 12 and held her after. Those terrible, beautiful 12 hours... Remembering hurts less than it did last year, and I don't have an answer as to why--except for time.

My reality is so skewed. In my body and heart I feel so much better than I did one year ago, but I'm probably only a fragment of the way out of this thing. Maybe I've forgotten what good really feels like, and whatever I feel now is close enough.

That might be a lie I'm telling myself, because of the guilt After your child dies, who wants to feel better? On this day, of all days, I do not want to feel better. But I do. I want to. I need to. So where does that leave her? On top of my dresser, in a basket, where she's been for a while now.

Staring at that basket with the prayer shawl draped across it, the little altar of stones and trinkets and candles huddled against it, I still think, "What the fuck?" I can't believe it happened. I can't believe this is my life. But it is. I have her very tiny footprints to prove it.

I cannot dwell this month. I ought to have sat vigil with her ashes for all of February, but I could not put myself through it. I love her so much. She is my greatest treasure. But I've not even been able to bring myself to look at her photographs. What is that about? Do you know what I've been doing the last six weeks instead? I've gone back to work, and booked the rest of my time solid with writing classes, spinning classes, and yoga classes. I tell myself, "You are crawling back towards the light. You are saving your own life. Go to work. Go to class. Even if you have to do it on your hands and knees." And I have, and I do feel better. Stronger. More productive. More endorphin-ful. Less fragile.

But today I decided this "back towards the light" thing is bullshit. There is no going back. This experience has flattened me. It is as though I function in two dimensions now, without the third one (let's call it "hope" for a lack of a better...). Or maybe there are three dimensions, but rather cramped ones, as though I live in a shoebox. So what's different now is that I'm learning to like the shoebox. I'm saying, okay, I'm not getting out of this shoebox, but inside it I can have yoga and a career and love my family and see friends for coffee. Sure, it's a tight space to fit it into, but also much cozier without all that yearning and aspirations and big dreams and open windows. I'll just curl myself up inside here and see what I can make of it.

That sounds more negative than I intended. I'm tripping myself up. Too many things are true at the same time. I love her. I need to focus on myself. I am permanently trapped and wounded. I am feeling better. This anniversary is all about her. This anniversary is all about me.

It's hard to hold all these truths in tension at once. Harder still to explain them in words. This post, and my heart, are a mess. I have nothing planned for tomorrow. I will work, order take-out, light a candle. It's not enough. But nothing ever will be. I permanently miss her. I hope she knows.