the beginning

I have been writing to Layla in a journal for awhile now. Something about the pen and paper is comforting, and so much of it is so personal, not necessarily for others to read or understand. At the same time, I am feeling the need to write about my experience in a way that it can be shared with others. I feel so alienated from the world at times. Sometimes I long for someone, anyone, to ask me what happened. I feel like maybe if I tell my story, it will feel more real. Each time it will sink in, just a little more, that this is not a terrible, drawn-out nightmare.

But no one does. And that's okay, because honestly? I would probably have a hard time talking about it unless I happened to be feeling particularly strong at the time. And yet...

There are so many moments. They come back to me in flashes, in waves, and there is no escaping them. It's as if there is something left there to process. Something I didn't feel quite enough the first time. The memories, quite honestly, haunt me. And sometimes I want to reach out and grab someone and make them understand, bring them with me to that place and make them feel the terror, the sadness. The heartbreak.

Last night I was feeling a physical heaviness in my heart. It was like there was something sitting on my chest. I decided to write to Layla before I went to bed, and was surprised at how much I had to say. A snippet of my letter:

"When I was on my way to work today, I started to really miss my old life. So much has changed. I have changed. I missed my old coworkers, I missed the feeling of knowing what I was doing with my life. I missed driving to work, singing, imagining you listening to my voice as we sped down the road.
I miss the happiness. I miss the innocence.
I miss the excitement and the countdown and my growing belly. I miss the midwife appointments on the calendar, the hours of research on cloth diapering and breastfeeding and cosleeping.
I miss the thoughts of you in between us in the bed. I miss contemplating whether you would have curls, whose nose you would have, what color your eyes would be. I will never know."

As I finished the last sentence, the tears came on so forcefully and violently that I could hardly catch my breath. I had not cried that way for a long time. It was hard to think back to the happy times, the innocent times, the times that have now culminated in my mind as my old life. The line between then and now is so drastic, the contrast so sharp. There is no going back.

There is a hole in my heart. I have accepted it. But it hurts. Every day. Every moment, even if it's just a little. It still hurts.