Wrong thing to say.

I got together with someone that I hadn't seen for a long while over breakfast recently.  Dancing around the elephant in the room, I had to ask her something.  

"I noticed that you stopped talking with me after a few months after surgery- that was two years ago- and now you asked me to add you again on Facebook last summer.  What changed your mind?"

Yup, that's me,  straightforward.  To the point.  

She looked down and then said she didn't want to explain.

I said, "okay."  I was ready to drop it, and was munching on a piece of my omelet.  

She bursted out, "I can't handle your grief, you had been so sad so long time, you won't get better- I decided to give you six months before I gave up on you.  That's why I defriended you."  

Six...  months?    You can't handle it?  

Really, where is the directions that grief has to be limited to six months?  Where is it in instructions that my grief don't have to be about me, but about you?  

That comes to an article that I had read two months ago, and I feel the article is a must for everyone involved, not the nonmoms only, but their families and furthermore, their friends.  Here is the link-  How not to say the wrong thing

This would have lessened pain for everyone.    Less pain.  Less anger.  Less resentment. 

As it is, I know who to talk with, you dear friends and fellow IFers/CNBC bloggers.  It's pretty much safer to talk in this circle, if you think about it.  

Time out.

Nowadays, I find myself saying no.

Eat out?
No.

Hang out?
No.

Take a walk?
No.

Chat on phone or computer?
No.

Read blogs?
No.


Even thinking about going to the grocery to acquire food, that's too much for me.

Sitting here, thinking how I got like this- and I can only come to the conclusion, Christmas is coming up, and I don't want to see the kids.  What I'm missing out.  What I will not experience. More closer it comes to February anniversary, my mood is darkening.

The degree of sadness is different today compared to last year- last year, I was under a black cloud, numb, raging at the world, with a heap of self-hatred and guilt. Tissue box in each room.

 Now?

I'm melancholy.

With urges to bang my head on the wall, if I see a pregnant woman or a baby.  Not giving in, thro.  But... damn the urges!

(source)

You have to admit...this is an improvement compared to last year, in a sense.

It's funny- I got a note from an ex friend wanting to talk with me.  I did consider talking with her, but with the emotions I'm going through, especially now with the holidays nowadays.....?

Bad idea.     I'll have to hold off 'til the 'dark season' passes.  That'd be after February.

Tree

Before the surgery, I had always loved the tree- Christmas tree, Yuletide log, Holiday tree as long as I could remember from my childhood.   Looking up at the tree, I had thought the lights as fairies holding candles, stars sparking out of the night, a beacon for Santa Claus to come and drop off presents.    A family tradition to get a tree, decorate it, and bask in the tree lights, with the darkness around us.

Looking back, I realized the tree also was an example of family, everyone getting together front of the tree, to open presents, to enjoy each other, and be reminded of what family is supposed to be.


Supposed to be.

Sixteen years ago, I got a very BIG tree-  7'5 tree, so thick that you'd need two persons on each side, to help decorate the tree (woe be the person in back/corner, having to move by inch, hoping he wouldn't knock the tree down!).   Sixteen years ago, I thought I would have a family; a husband to love, and children to see the magic in their eyes.

(source)

I faithfully put up the tree every year, thinking "next year, I'll find someone and have a child."


I had relationships, however, I couldn't picture myself living with each of those guys permanently, and I was unfortunately right.    The last relationship had burned me badly, and I found that singlehood was much better for me.    I then looked into getting pregnant, and that didn't work out; two miscarriages were the result before I noticed the bump that led to the surgery.

The surgery wiped out my hope of having a family.  Children.


Last year, I found myself reluctantly putting up the tree. I found out that I had an hate-love relationship with the tree.

There would be the days I would look at the tree, with tears in my eyes.  

Some days, I'd glance at the tree, thinking there's still hope.

Other days, I wanted so badly to toss the tree out the window, chop it up and toss it into a bonfire.

After the holiday, I decided the tree had to go.  I donated the tree and ornaments to a shelter for domestic violence survivors, so the survivors and children can enjoy the tree in a safe place.

For the last six weeks, I found myself swinging between a desire for a tree and not wanting a tree.   A friend, who spent the road trip with me, encouraged me to get a tree. We didn't get one- and I found that I'm glad about that.  I love her, but I didn't like the pressure, not when I didn't feel ready.

I still searched for trees while surfing Internet, finding myself annoyed when catching myself doing that.

After talking with my therapist a few days ago, about the tree, I realized something.

The 7'5 tree-  it was for my family to be. My dream children.    Hope for family and children.   

Hence the tree never had belonged to ME. It had belonged to my family that was supposed to happen. 

After the catharsis, I then knew what to do.

I looked at trees, taking my time.    Tonight, I went to Target to get some package boxes so I'd mail stuff to family in Kansas, when I thought to myself "why not look at the trees here?"

I saw that the trees were on sale for 50% off. I went, "well, there's this tree I like, don't know if there'd be any left."

I went around the corner to find that the tree model that I liked, was still there, but no packages beneath the low raiser that the floor model was placed on.  I was thinking fatalistically, "that's that..." when a staff member stopped by and asked if he could help me. I shrugged and pointed at where the tree was, "no more packages. All out."

"We can pack this floor model tree for you, 75% off for you."

Serious? 
Serious?  
Is he serious?!  

I knew then that the tree was meant for ME.    Jules, the woman I am, on my own journey, exploring the world.

I took the tree home.    I put it up, decorating it with new ornaments, with some ornaments I kept from my trips to New Orleans and Britain.

This is MY tree.