Limbo

I’ve been sitting on this post for a long time (well, not literally). The immediate future of the blog seems to depend on my writing it or not, posting it or not. Doing something or not. Or not. Or not. So far, it’s been mostly not. Ever since I got pregnant, I’ve been in a ‘not’ kind of place. Not sewing, not knitting, not photographing, not writing, not blogging. This is not a sulky ‘not’. It’s not a coy ‘not’. It’s not a powerful angry ‘not’ either. It’s just a grey, heavy, sad, stagnating, despairing kind of ‘not’.

And so I’ve been thinking that I have essentially two choices (why always two? binarity invading all corners of the universe…): either I talk about my ‘not’ right here on this blog and the blog becomes a place where I can talk even when I have nothing pretty to say, or I don’t talk about it, but then I’d better quit altogether so that at least I don’t have to deal with the pressure of having a blog I never update, sitting there on my screen like an ugly symbol of all the things I am not doing.

I figured I’d try the first option and see how I fare. Option two is always there anyway, a back-up, plan B.

I am completely stuck. Instead of being delighted about the pregnancy (it is all going very well, miscarriage danger gone, the clock is ticking, only 5,5 months to go), I am just sad, and I feel guilty about being sad, because of all the lovely people who wish they were pregnant and aren’t, because of the baby inside me who didn’t ask me to let it come but who is coming now and deserves better.

This sadness of mine is so deep that I cannot even get to it. It’s just a huge cloud of doom hanging over me. Which is why I’m so stuck. Isabelle and I, we are very close. Joined at the hip. We sleep in one bed. I still nurse her. Every day. I still know when she’s hungry or thirsty, even at a distance. I still know what she means when nobody else does.

I have a younger brother, he was born when I was five, and from the moment I got pregnant with this second baby, I have been discovering how very difficult and traumatizing it was for me as a child when my brother was born. The pain of my own loss then, of the loss of contact with my mother, is compounded with my fear of losing my bond with Isabelle (and really, deep down, they are just one and the same thing, I know that).

I am terrified. I live on the edge of the world. I live at the very end of paradise. I know the date of expulsion, they told me. I am counting the days to the end.

Like a rabbit in the headlights. Not. Moving. Not. Feeling. Not.