Yesterday was a significant day for me and me alone. My second baby was due June 2, and had she not died, I would just now be welcoming her into my heart and home. I had terminated my first pregnancy due to a fatal chromosomal defect; my last miscarriage was the same scenario except my body took care of business that time. Since I never had tests run on Baby #2, I am consumed with a conviction that that baby was chromosomally normal and I fucked up my pregnancy by making abrupt medication changes in early pregnancy. It was unavoidable, but I should have been more vigilant with my prescriptions. I know that’s not rational but my mind is always racing with thoughts about where I went so wrong.

Blaming myself is counterproductive, yes, I know. I once considered myself spiritual but the comfort I derived from putting faith in the universe seems to have bitten me in the ass. These days, I make moral decisions based on superstition and magical thinking; no, it’s probably not healthy and hopefully I won’t spin out into the familiar terrain of psychosis.

Do you know how it feels to distrust your mind and your senses? I have been on the verge of cracking for over two years and with each blow, each dire proclamation from the fine medical staff of Providence Medical Group might be the one that shatters my sanity. These are real concerns. If I have another psychotic episode, it’s anyone’s guess as to if I’ll ever come back. Some people don’t, you know.

I try to take care of myself, create a hospitable environment for any fertilized egg that may burrow deep into my womb and I pray there’s something compassionate out there that can forgive my sins and wash me clean. In the interim, I hold on white-knuckled and quivering. All I want is a break.


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