I've been on this kick, where I think I'm good to go. That I can go out in public like a regular human and do normal things without any problems.
And this worked initially. I went to the bank. I went to the post office. I went to the office supply store and the pet food store and the dry cleaner.
And then I went to the grocery store. Which any reasonable person knows is pretty much a minefield of mommies and babies. Except I'd either forgotten that or blocked it or something. And then there was this mommy, and her very cute chubby baby, and the mommy was staring adoringly at her baby and I had to remind myself to breathe in, then out, then in again.
And then I bought chocolate ice cream. And got a roll of toilet paper out of the trunk of my car -- tissue is tissue -- and spent a moment collecting myself before I drove back home. Part of me thinks this is an overreaction, although it was involuntary. I was nowhere near to even having the baby. It's not like I birthed a stillborn child or something; I had a good seven months to go. Part of me is fucking pissed. Part of me is exhausted. Part of me wants to punch my own face. All of me is tired of thinking about it and talking about it.
I'm not back to normal. That is becoming painfully obvious. I've seen this in friends, too. Strong women who have miscarried and said I'm really fine, actually. And then they realized later that they weren't fine, aren't fine.
Today I have a post up at Tired & Stuck. It's about the miscarriage. It's not for the faint of heart and contains unpleasant details. But I think it was important to put out there so there's something honest for women to read about this experience.
I'll move past this, I swear I will. Not today and probably not this week, but it's like any other loss; so acute in the beginning and then after time a dull ache.