The pit in my stomach is building. I am feeling heavier, the knife is twisting deeper. The haunting memories, the numbers on the calendar, the Easter holiday arriving.
How is that possible?
It's there, it's definitely there-but it's nowhere near the pain in those first days.
I have been thinking a lot lately about the early days. In the first few weeks after Aiden and Sophie died, I had one goal for the day: get up and shower. I kept telling myself that if I could at least shower once a day, I wasn't in the deepest darkest parts of a real depression. I don't remember if I cooked or not. I don't remember anything except laying in bed looking at the internet, crying, avoiding people, and getting up once a day to shower. My husband went back to work and I don't remember if he resented me for getting to stay home or not. I know it cost us money for me to stay home. I just don't really remember. We put our house up for sale in an effort to run away from everything (that didn't work so well!).
I do have some random, distinct memories. Venturing out on my own and having the lady at the gas station ask me when I was due. Deciding to stain the deck and have the neighbor literally turn and run away from me when I told her the babies died.
I don't even remember if I went grocery shopping or not. I haven't really asked my husband, I don't know if he would remember either.
I look at that, at us in that other house, and I don't recognize us. What was it like? Who was I before this happened?
Three years. Incredible.
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