Only Words

Last week I bit the bullet and got a referral from our GP to go and speak to a Psychologist. He gave me a referral to who I had requested (Declan’s pysch, who announces on his card that he “does big kids too!”), but not before making me do the dreaded “How Close Are You To Jumping Off A Cliff” questionnaire and suggesting that based on my responses I shouldn’t even contemplate getting pregnant for another 18  months.

Then I burst into tears and don’t remember much else of what he said.

I left with my referral, I have an appointment booked in for Friday, and I’m a little bit stumped about it.

I don’t know what there is left to talk about. I feel like I spent the entire first month just talking about it until my jaw ached, there is nothing left to say. Robyn died, I am sad, but I need to keep functioning to look after my two living children.

I cry when I see sleeping newborns. I am jealous of their parents. Because at some point those babies will open their eyes, and mine never did.

I can’t look at ultrasound screens, on telly, on my mum’s forums, I can’t even look at the old sonograms of the boys. Because all I see is the dead upside down baby, with no movement in her chest and a room full of silent people, none of them knowing what to say next.

I can’t watch telly, I don’t want to see the news, I don’t want to see stupid fluff pieces on morning shows, I don’t want to see adverts for products offering “the best protection for your baby”. I was the best protection for my baby.

I can’t sit still and let my thoughts take over, that would be instant doom.

I can’t imagine having a baby. I can visualise my next pregnancy perfectly. I can picture myself running around after the boys with huge belly once again without any hesitation at all. I can’t imagine myself with a newborn, or with three children living under our roof, I am prepared for the death of my fourth child more so than I am for its birth.

I have irrational hatred to people that I consider to be parenting badly. The mother in the cafe mixing up formula, I deserve a child more than her, because I would breastfeed. The parents standing in the same aisle as me in Target, complaining because they can’t find anyone to babysit on Friday night, I deserve a child more than them because I would never leave it, ever.

Don’t even get me started on the emotions I have towards the people that actually ARE parenting badly. Another reason why the news is a no-go area.

I don’t want to pick up her ashes, because then we will have to scatter them, and I will lose the last little bit of her forever.

I’m not ready for another pregnancy yet, but I still sob every time my period starts.

The logic in that one fails me completely.

I am sad. I have moments of uncontrollable emotions, but on a day to day basis I am competent, I am coping well, in fact I even feel far better than I did during my PPD with Declan.

I want to go and see the psychologist and just get him to tell me that this is all normal, that everything I am feeling is what I’m meant to be feeling.

I don’t want to sit down and talk for hours about all that could have been, or why what happened, happened. It doesn’t fix anything, it doesn’t make her come back, it doesn’t even make me feel better, it just forces me to dwell on every emotion.

I just want him to tell me I’m normal, that everything I’m feeling is normal.

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