For a long time after my miscarriages, I imagined my uterus was lined with spikes. Sharp, pointy, jagged spikes that would tear and crush any life that dared to grow there. I hated that killer uterus, the thing that took two babies away from me. I thought it was useless and defective and cruel. For a long time I was convinced that it was eating away at my future, from the inside of my body out.
My uterus, as we finally discovered, works well enough. But the feelings persisted.
Those spikes – raw, gnashing, ugly – they’re still there. In my soul. I can’t stand myself. For a while I thought it was my exterior. I thought maybe losing some weight or getting a pedicure would make me feel better. And then the nail polish would wear off, the calluses returned and for all my good intentions, the weight kept creeping up. And I only hated myself more, and found more excuses.
I hate what I am, what I appear to be. My inside is just as ugly as my outside. I constantly feel that nothing I do is right. I don’t look right or say the right things, or act right, or write right.
I certainly don’t feel right.
Once I told a counselor that I was having “dark thoughts.” I imagined no one loved me, that no one even liked me, that I was a burden on everyone around me, that I embarrassed people just by being in their presence. “Dark” to me meant admitting some of my deepest fears. “Dark” to her meant something else. She laughed and said that I didn’t know what “dark” was. I never went back. That was four years ago. I didn’t ever talk about it with anyone else.
I thought that I needed to be suicidal to seek the help of a professional therapist. I didn’t want to die, so I felt trapped inside a person I hated. I tried to hide. I crawled inside myself and chewed on my fears, my failures, till they were raw. I pulled away from my husband, my family and my friends. I caused a lot of problems by not being honest with them, and by not being honest with myself.
I have a lot to face up to. I have a lot to say. This is going to suck, but there’s just no way around it. I’m scared as hell.
I wrote that a month ago. But I still couldn't bring myself to post it. Doing it now means that I'm better. Not all the way... we're still talking baby steps here. But I have a new found respect and admiration for SSRIs. They help. They really do.
I'm sorry I left my blog so abruptly, and for so long. I'm pretty sure no one's even checking it anymore, and that's ok with me. It means I can ease back into blogging. And if you're still checking up on me, well... thanks.