I’ve been worried that the antidepressants are numbing me to my emotions, and that I’m using chemicals to silence my grief. However, yesterday made me realize that, no, I’m still actively grieving.
I listen to YouTube while I write papers. I’m too cheap to pay for music, and the ads I have to listen to are penance for my stinginess. Unfortunately, yesterday there was a baby crying in an ad, and I lost it.
Yesterday, as I listened to that anonymous baby crying, it felt like my body was trying its damnedest to respond as a breastfeeding mother would. I’ve never been pregnant long enough to start that process, but somehow yesterday my body said This is our moment!
Of course nothing happened physically. I’m not pregnant; my body doesn’t need to feed a baby, nor is it able to. I sat and sobbed, and then I went and broke down in my husband’s arms. My instincts are to be a mother, even though I’m keenly aware of our losses. I have no confusion about what happened. It’s foolish for my body to respond, even in a vestigial way, to the recorded cries of a baby that isn’t mine, but grief makes me foolish.
I am a contained explosion of longing. My chest is a tornado of grief and joy and loss, good memories swirling in the midst like a thin sliver of gold in the confusion. I feel like my heart is a sinking ship giving off flares and explosions as it goes down, a well-lit wreck, while I try to survive in waters deep and cold.
My brain is very clear [and medicated]; my body is confused, and I, the sum of all these parts, am sad.