on my table, on my mind
It happened last night. A switch flipped somewhere deep inside and I found myself again. Today I feel soooo much better. Ready to hope again, work again, smile again, and yes... try again. That hormone fog was nasty though, and gives me a new empathy for those that struggle with depression. When nothing sounded worth doing and nothing seemed possible anymore and I felt trapped alone with my grief - I knew I was not myself, but I couldn't see how to find her again. I prayed, yes. And I cried.
I'm glad I decided to share some of the sorrow here on Monday, because your comments really did help. Something about not being pregnant makes a woman feel stupid, faulty, foolish, pitiful. It was comforting to be received so graciously by you all, and especially to hear your stories. Some people in my life have shared less-than-helpful comments. Oh, they meant to help, to offer advice; but please don't serve constructive criticism to someone grieving. I don't think they knew how sad I was inside.
One thing I did learn through this experience is that optimism, my trusty sidekick, does come with liability. The darn thing won't quit, even when the quitting is good. I've been trying to figure out how to approach things differently next time, to not want to be pregnant so bad or not hope so much or not need to know. But optimism, it's there. And intensity - that's me. Don't ask me not to try or plan or hope. Don't ask me to "go easy on myself". That's not myself. That's you. That's someone else' path.
I'm used to aiming high. And by now (I'm 31 years old, people!), I'm also used to disappointment. I still think the best way to fly is to believe you can.
Some people I didn't expect to be so helpful, my husband and my close friend who just found out on Thursday that she's pregnant, have actually been the sweetest ears. "It's not our last time to try, " he says. And that's the best thing I've heard yet. Thank God we have reason to try again and hope for a different result next time. That's a privilege and a gift and... if I squint... maybe even an adventure.
p.s. all the flowers are on my table
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| scrappy stockpile |
I'm glad I decided to share some of the sorrow here on Monday, because your comments really did help. Something about not being pregnant makes a woman feel stupid, faulty, foolish, pitiful. It was comforting to be received so graciously by you all, and especially to hear your stories. Some people in my life have shared less-than-helpful comments. Oh, they meant to help, to offer advice; but please don't serve constructive criticism to someone grieving. I don't think they knew how sad I was inside.
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| basting with Warm + Natural batting |
One thing I did learn through this experience is that optimism, my trusty sidekick, does come with liability. The darn thing won't quit, even when the quitting is good. I've been trying to figure out how to approach things differently next time, to not want to be pregnant so bad or not hope so much or not need to know. But optimism, it's there. And intensity - that's me. Don't ask me not to try or plan or hope. Don't ask me to "go easy on myself". That's not myself. That's you. That's someone else' path.
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| quilting along the seams, then fill in between |
I'm used to aiming high. And by now (I'm 31 years old, people!), I'm also used to disappointment. I still think the best way to fly is to believe you can.
 |
| an extra table for quilting support |
Some people I didn't expect to be so helpful, my husband and my close friend who just found out on Thursday that she's pregnant, have actually been the sweetest ears. "It's not our last time to try, " he says. And that's the best thing I've heard yet. Thank God we have reason to try again and hope for a different result next time. That's a privilege and a gift and... if I squint... maybe even an adventure.
p.s. all the flowers are on my table