Written after my first miscarriage: I envy other women for their ability to not be so fucking dramatic. To wear less black eye makeup. To live in a state of grace. Myself, I’m full of anxiety and these days I cry a lot. Over simple things. The blissfully pregnant woman sitting across from me at community acupuncture. The couple that shows up with a baby that they never bothered to tell us about. Despite best intentions, I cannot control my behavior these days. My mental health professionals suggest deep breathing—I am never not deep breathing, panic rolls over me in waves. Complete strangers often take the time to tell me to relax. Who can fucking relax?
There’s a high-pitched noise reverberating through me. My reflexes are on hair trigger; I am always vigilant. I have difficulties navigating the outside world, troubles that should have dissipated as I grew and evolved but in approaching middle age I find I am unarmed, raw and increasingly high strung. A lot of people think I’m weird and I really wish I wasn’t. I want to be wholesome again, but I no longer have no conceptual framework for that particular attribute and am marked by deep furrows in my face and circles under my eyes. The face of a histrionic child-soul grown old despite my desperate grasp to maintain immaturity, to cling to innocence but at the same time I miss the hardened stoicism I projected as a girl.
You know, I thought I could change. I always thought that someday I’d straighten myself out and write glowingly optimistic words that would uplift and, pardon my narcissism, help people. I thought I might even learn to be humorous and that maybe then people would like me again. But time is running out, the world out there filled with less tragedy than I’ve wrought upon myself slips away a little more every day. I had a second chance. And it just went so so wrong.