My mom always insists on looking in the baby section when we go to stores. I feel obligated to "ooo" and "ahh" at all the cute things, yet I'm choking back tears.
She's going through much more than I could ever understand. She's depressed; she was abused as a child. My dad doesn't believe that depression is an illness. I'm stuck supporting her when I can't even get myself together.
The miscarriage was over three weeks ago. Why can't I forget it? When I wake up in the morning, I rub my belly in hopes that it was all a dream. It's still empty.
I've had a miscarriage before. That one didn't hurt nearly as bad, emotionally or physically. Why must this time be so hard?
Is it because we nicknamed him? Is it because I wanted him? Is it because I'm not on anti-depressants anymore?
Logging into facebook, there's always an update of "so-and-so's" pregnancy. Baby pictures stand out. Big bellies containing life stare at me. I remember the heartbeat I saw; then I remember the day there wasn't one. I remember the bathroom--toilet filled with blood.
Today I saw my grandparents. My grandpa has prostate cancer. I felt like I just added to their saddness when I walked in without a belly.
I can't afford counseling. I know what they'll say. It's the same textbook replies to my depression. I've taken Psych 101, I know the drill, yet why can't I be content?
Maybe today was hard since the doctor called yesterday. All my labs are normal. I'm perfect, medically speaking. Maybe it's because I'm looking for a job instead of preparing the baby's room. Maybe I'm just emotional because I'm suppose to start my period soon.
I feel empty.
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