Where I’m Calling From

I have been trying to figure out what to write about.

I began this blog in January of 2013, nearly three years ago, because frankly I was broken. My anger was a molten subcutaneous animal, a writhing and howling thing beneath my skin. From time to time it would claw its gory way out of my mouth in mean and unkind words, and so I isolated myself for the health and safety of others. A fog of shame, rage and dumbfounded grief was gathering between me and the rest of the world and I was slowly dying. I had lost two babies at that point; I would lose many more before the end.

I saw a therapist who suggested writing as a way of reconnecting, of releasing. It was a pretty good idea.

It’s hard to hold in my hands all that’s happened since. There have been times when I’ve written to stay alive and times when I’ve hidden away, quaking with fear, from all my words because I could not sit in my own skin long enough to voice them. Once upon a time it was all I thought about, this terrible wound of childlessness.

I’m not there now.

Where I am now is ok. There are momentary relapses, times when the grief is fresh and the grinding fertility-privileged world that discards and erases the bodies and experiences of childless women can irritate the shit out of me, and I will give in and rant for a bit. Luckily I can crack myself up, so it’s at least entertaining.

But for the most part, most of the seconds and minutes and hours of my days, I’m at peace. As I write those words, a great geyser of emotion is erupting in me and all of a sudden I am weeping. I’m at peace. The dreadful blood-colored ache in my belly has ebbed, has healed, has not killed me. What a dear and inestimable gift, to be able to say that.

This blog has given me wings, has let me virtually fly all over the world and connect to women in this global sisterhood of loss. While I still raged, there were women who knew that there was a far shore of forgiveness, and although I didn’t believe them I was grateful for their patience and love. It is one of the great miracles of human connection, to be loved when you are an unmitigated asshole.

So maybe that’s what this is about now. You, who have lost or cannot conceive, who sit in crushing isolation, who read these words from the center of a hermetically sealed echo chamber of shame and rage. You whose belly is thick with want and empty of life, whose guts churn with bewildered self-loathing and the knowledge that you must, at the core, be corrupted and unlovable or surely a life would take hold there. You, oh my sweet beloved girl, my fierce and aching woman, you perfect precious suffering soul – I’m here now. Come here, baby. I’ve got you now.

Big love from the far shore,


12 thoughts on “Where I’m Calling From

  1. You have our endless love. Writing brought us here. ❤

  2. That last paragraph was for me. Thank you.

  3. Katy says:

    Your words always touch me. Thank you.

  4. Ruth says:

    I am one of the new followers since you were Freshly Pressed (thanks for the welcome yesterday.) I have never lost a baby, or had one for that matter, so I don’t know your particular pain. I do know pain, though, deep and dark and twisting how you see the world. I love your images: “My anger was a molten subcutaneous animal, a writhing and howling thing beneath my skin.” Or, from the Closing of the Bones “being the Helped instead of the Helper is an itchy kind of stretch for me.” Or about you and your husband “We have been utterly shattered and have put the pieces back together so many times that eventually it stopped being all that important which piece belonged to who, and as such we are a mosaic of both ourselves and each other, beautifully fractured and shimmering in our harmonies and discords.” That is why I followed you – thank you for sharing your writing with all of us, and helping me to understand something of experiences I haven’t endured.

  5. Ahhh. Peace. What a lovely thing . . .

  6. snowdroplets says:

    Thank you for this. I am in the dark times grappling with lost hopes, grief, fear, longing… It doesn’t feel like I’ll ever be all right again, but I know I will eventually find the peace you speak of. Thank you for sharing this.

  7. cerianlt says:

    Thank you for sharing your story. I’ve recently lost what would have been my first child and as some form of therapy I wrote and shared my story – I’m still in pieces really and I don’t feel very brave or very strong, but the amount of women who’ve contacted me since I shared my blog is overwhelming. The support out there from total strangers is staggering. It’s people like you, unafraid of speaking so openly about the terrors of baby loss that help to break the taboo. So thank you.

  8. A. says:

    ::waves from the aforementioned chamber:: I actually cried a little reading this one, playing into, as it has, my current spell of despair.

  9. I am new to your writings as well. When I read a few of your blogs I was going to comment as I have lost ONE baby and felt exactly as you wrote. Then I continued to read and realized that you have endured that deep horrid sadness more than once. You are brave to relive the nightmares for the sake of us. Thank you more than you know. My experience was 22 years ago yet while I read I felt every single feeling all over again and as I write this my eyes are welling up. To all those that rejoice at your “stick with a baby in it” only to be betrayed by your own body, peace to your bruised and battered heart. You are loved.

  10. nzchick15 says:

    Thank you for sharing your thoughts and experiences. I wish I had discovered these posts earlier but am enjoying catching up on feelings and experiences I know all too well. Your witty style of writing is cheering me up and is the best virtual hug.. Thanks so much

  11. C.E. Pierce says:

    I am also a new follower and I have to say wow. I feel as if you are writing to me. I am there with you. I feel your pain. I myself work at a school for small children and as the years go by and I see the mothers getting younger and younger. I am not old by any standards. My heart my soul feel ancient the loss suffocating. I write as well to escape the everyday. To find hope in the world. There is hope. There has to be.
    Thanks for your words.

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