Reflections: who I was and who I am.

Over the last week I have opened up truths about the last year to a new friend. It wasn’t painful to be honest for once, it was refreshing. But something was painful.

I decided to write a short play for an event, which I did. Then I thought I should get back to the play I started writing last year. I found it and read through it again to remind myself where I needed to write more. That’s when it got painful. I threw my soul into those words and they bit me. I felt melancholy and close to tears the rest of the day, only feeling better when meeting the earlier mentioned friend.

Yesterday, I played the song I wrote almost a year ago which defines the miscarriage for me. I’ve played it a number of times but, this time, I started crying. Maybe it is just tiredness or maybe everything is feeling raw at the moment.

My husband thinks that it is the time of year. It is a year since I started writing again and I started learning to recover. Looking back on who I was then is like looking at a different person most of time time. I can sometimes see that anger though, glinting back up. I walk with my nephew and people smile at me. I don’t have that in the rest of my life.

Being a mother changes the way the world views you. Being a mother without a child changes the way you view the world.

Advertisements

Poem 83

Parallel lives, parallel worlds

Looking left and right at all that could be

Seeing the joy, seeing the sadness

Seeing the heartbreak bestowed on me

Now that you’re gone, returned to the ground

Now that you’re gone…

…I fear I’ll be found.

Poem 82

The hardest thing

Is when people don’t know.

Comments pass by

Each one a blow.

The missing mention

About motherhood

All because

Life was not good.

The jealous pangs

When people talk about

The laughter and smiles

Before forced to shout

At their beautiful gift

Present and true.

But I lost my gift.

I lost you.

Mother without a child

All the children scream “Happy Mother’s Day”
They fawn and cuddle with delight
Presenting gifts with hushed tones
Hoping that they got it right.

Their mothers get spoilt and pampered
Enjoying a day that’s for them
Happy that their smiling faces
Are maybe behaving again.

But what of those childless mothers
How do they celebrate this day?
Always longing that they will be presented with
A card simply saying “Mummmy”

They’ve never experienced the joy of today
From the view of the mother, not child
But a mother they still are, even though
Their child passed before being alive.

On Mother’s Day we join to celebrate
Throw gifts onto our creators
But spare a thought, my dear friend
For the mums who have lost their creations.

Poem 45

If I stay, should I stay, what is left to fear?

I’ll have my love, the one who’s here

A smile and a dance, jovial moods

Splattered with my failing, my ineptitude.

If I go, should I go, what would I fear?

That my love, he won’t be so near

Separated by Earth and depression, loathing

The act that saw the fight stopping.

Caught in a crossfire of love and hate

Of fraught relationships – damn you fate!

Stolen and split my life has become

And, who knows,

am I done?

Poem 35

Unwarranted shame imprints on the mind

Poisoning otherwise pure moments

Infecting the smiles of momentary relief

From a grief abundantly potent.

The struggle to heal and fight is real

The weariness impedes battling limbs

The heart, the stomach, the brain all weak

Marching making no more than a quiver.

Dragging the soulless creature to the front

To face the demons with open arms

Embrace or decline? It is not yet decided

But a fight will occur ’til death do us parted.

Poem 33

My bite is gone

It doesn’t grasp

The taste of what

Was meant to pass.

It swaggers and sways

And falls through

The cracks forming

Between me and you.

Body and soul gradually drifting

The seams splitting the delicate thread

No longer connected in unison

But fraught with fear and regret.

Observing behaviours from above and below

Wishing the actions had a heart to make them so

Eager and willing and wholesome and true

Alas, what is left of you?