I wrote this message to a friend, and now I have adapted it for here, too. I orignally composed it as a private message because I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings by posting it here. Fuck it. I am so fucking mad.
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I hate today. I was indescribably pissed off when I woke up and the sun was shining. I made the mistake of getting on Facebook and now I feel loathing for everyone. They're all going on with their lives and commenting on each other's cute fucking kids and saying inane shit like, "Is it Friday yet!?" You fuckers. My baby is dead. Fuck you and your fucking Fridays for the rest of your lives.
I realized this morning that I don't think I can go back to the clinic I was going to. They took good care of me, but I don't think I can sit in the waiting room with all the pregnant bellies. I don't think I can face all the women who were so kind to me and who congratulated me. I'll find another place to go for the remainder of the medical care I need.
Someone said to me, "This is a blessing in disguise," and I wanted to fire-bomb the world.
Someone else suggested that maybe next time I shouldn't tell people about my pregnancy so early, because now I have to clean up the mess of telling everyone. Fuck all the people who walk around keeping everything in hushed tones. I need to talk about shit and I would do it the same way again.
I don't know where to put all this. Where the fuck do I put this?
Someone wrote to me in kindness to share suggestions of how I should memorialize my baby, and part of it included taking pictures of all the things I bought for the baby and putting them in a book. Well, I didn't have anything for the baby. I had only bought myself things: prenatal vitamins and fresh fruits and vegetables and milk and maternity clothes and a nursing bra and passes to a community pool so I could exercise and a new bathing suit to go with it. Should I take a picture of these things?
Before I was pregnant I looked at Ivan's body with desire. When I was pregnant, I looked at it with wonder because of this life we were creating together. Last night when he stretched out across the bed I looked at it with fear. We can do terrible damage together.
I want to wrap all women that this has happened to in my arms and take away their hurt and keep them safe.
I want to scream when people say cutesy things about their miscarriages, like, "Today is my baby's two year angelversary." Maybe coating it in god and sugar and angels helps them, but it only makes me furious. My baby is dead. And I was revulsed when I had to pull her out of a blood-filled toilet still warm from my body and drop her in a jar. I will hear the sickening thud she made for the rest of my life.
I just don't know what to do with this.