Hello again. I haven’t written in awhile. I found with the last post it put me in a funk for a little while and I wasn’t ready to revisit that just yet. But now I can begin writing in the present day, as I’ve given all of the lovely back story to this current form of bullshit we get to live in.

As I’m writing I’m 37 weeks and 5 days pregnant. It has been a good distraction from everything, simply because it makes me tired. I can sleep at night simply because this life growing inside of me is an energy thief. A lot of the other people neck deep in this still haven’t gotten back to sleeping well. I’m almost 38 weeks pregnant and this child is no where close to coming out. NOT EVEN CLOSE. I’m so SO ready to not be pregnant anymore. Everyone says, “Oh, she’s much more quiet in there than she will be when she comes out.” I don’t care. I will take the exhaustion over this. I’m ready to be done with this part, I’m ready for the baby part. When I get frustrated with her lack of a sense of urgency to leave the womb, I try to remind myself that she’s with my mother. And my mother will only get her for a short time, and I will get her for a lifetime, so maybe I shouldn’t be so selfish. Maybe I should just relax and let Eleanor enjoy her time with my mother. Because I know that, like her mother, Eleanor’s time with my mom will be cut short. It won’t be the way it should have been. Truthfully every time I think something is starting to happen and maybe we’re going to have a baby soon, I get excited at the idea that maybe this is it. And then it occurs to me that I will do this motherless. I will go through labor and deliver this baby and bring her home and love her and raise her without my mom. And then I start to panic. I become instantly emotional and immediately regret being excited. Because as much as I’m so ready to be this little girls Mama, I’m so not ready for the reality that will come with it. The harsh truth that the life I planned on, things that I feel like I deserve to have, have been taken from me, stolen right out from under me. Because the truth is, I didn’t think it was something I needed to protect. The truth is I thought I had more time with her. Years and years of time. But death is a real bitch. And a time thief.

It’s been a little over a month since she’s passed, and I cant’ say how many times I’ve physically picked up the phone to call her. My thumb hovering over her name in my phone, and just at the last second remembering I can’t call her. I can’t say how many times I’ve had to remember she’s not alive. How many times I’ve wondered what fucked up universe we are living in, and how do we get back to the one we were living in. I was getting out of the shower the other day, and it just hit me. I literally said out loud, “I just can’t believe she’s gone.” I feel like we just haven’t talked in a long time. I think maybe this is how the mind protects itself. Like it’s too much to comprehend at once, so it kind of tricks itself to survive. For right now, I’m ok with this trick. I can get out of bed in the morning because of this trick, I care to clean my house, make dinner, make my bed, because of this trick. For now I’ll take it. Mostly because I’m afraid of what comes when it stops playing tricks.

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