Failure

I talked with my therapist about my two traumatic experiences giving birth. She was sympathetic and encouraging and made me feel a little better about always assuming the worst. I see baby showers and I feel disdain. Do they NOT KNOW all the million and one things that could happen to end in tragedy? Do they not realize how badly it could all go? They’re just laughing and drinking punch, speculating on only the good things to come. Don’t get me wrong—I can check myself and bite my tongue and gush with the rest of them, but I don’t feel it. I’m not buying into the happiness.

I suggested that my body failed me in birthing my children—it nearly killed my son, and then it nearly died with my daughter. She suggested that maybe luck was involved, or maybe miracles, but in the end, my body didn’t fail at all. It gave me two absolutely perfect babies, and it kept on living against all odds.

On the other hand, I failed my body. A lot. I abused it for years and hated it longer. And still it did everything it could for me, for us, giving me the most amazing gifts I could ever imagine. Day 66.