“Grief never ends… but it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith… it’s the price of love.”

I’m completely over what has happened. It’s really not that bad. Way worse things happen to people all the time. It’s as if nothing had even happened at all. I’m better. I’m fixed. I’m ok. I’m a liar.

My neck and jaw ache constantly from fighting the surge of emotion that bubbles over unexpectedly… uncontrollably… with no warning… at anytime. I don’t actually know what I’m sad about. In my head I’ve come to accept and understand what has happened. I have placed it on a scale of life changing events and it doesn’t weigh up against thousands of other things that could happen. I’m safe, free and loved. But I can’t shake the feeling. It haunts me. I walk around in fear, scared of what people are thinking. Am I weak? How am I suppose to be? I’ve never ‘done’ this before? I feel unpredictable. Unstable. Who am I? I want the ‘old’ me back. Seriously… I didn’t even plan to fall pregnant. Babies don’t like me. I shouldn’t feel anything. How can the name ‘Sienna’ take so much from me? I want it back. I want me back.

Ketut hanging out with Ethel and Aggie

Grief makes us feel so out of control that we long for structure and predictability. The feeling of no control is the worse thing. Your emotions…your thoughts… your body… the circumstance… others. Once the hormones finally settled down, I started to master this thing called control. Well, at least the appearance of control. I have worked out my ‘triggers’… the chink in my armour. Unfortunately they have emerged as people and music (and lets not even delve into the Almighty yet). If I can evade both these, I’m sure to be ok… so, no radio, no church and at all cost, avoid human eye contact. I’ve become the master of busy. My house is spotless, my dog and cat are spoilt (yes, even more!) and we have welcomed two chickens, Ethel and Aggie, into our fold. I have a ritual. I have structure. I have purpose. I have control. I’m strong, I’m recovered. I’m a  liar!

Next thing to master: that room. That room with the sealed door. I fear hell lie behind that door. Many times I’d march to it, then scamper away fearing it would swallow me whole. Breathe… breathe… it’s just stuff. All the baby furniture is pushed to the corner. The clothes, bottles, toys, pram and books are collected, piled in my boot and given away. I’m unattached. These things mean nothing… liar. Hmm, two huge boxes of eco-baby wipes. That was a good idea! Some items I’ve decided to keep are shoved in haste to the back of the cupboard. Door closed. Room closed. Non-existent. Why am I still holding my breath?

Sienna’s memory box

I have also created a scrapbook and memorial box with Sienna’s things. Therapy ‘they’ say. Good way to keep busy… playing with paper. Box closed. Story over. The end. All better. I wish! I seem to be running out of things to do. I contact my work and tell my boss I would like to come back early to help me return to ‘normal life’. I’ll have to eventually face people, right? Rip it fast, like a band-aid. I start writing reports from home. Yes, reports! I sit at my dining table everyday and write, and rewrite. I love this… busy, busy, busy. See, I’m fine. Liar.

The truth is, I am a liar. A dirty, rotten liar. The shower has, however, become my place of truth. There I am exposed for what I really am. No mask. No tasks. I’m bare. I’m broken. I avoid making eye contact with myself in the mirror. I’m disgusted at what I am. I can see the truth; ‘damaged goods’. In the quiet of the night, once hubby has fallen asleep, the tears flow soundless through my pillow. It’s not ok. It’s not fine. I just want it to stop…the feeling to stop. I know the truth. Despite how busy I am, there it is like an anchor, dragging me back to the beginning, reminding me, you’ll never be the same again.

The dog somehow got into the chicken coop. My dear new friends Ethel and Aggie are gone… But the world keeps spinning. People keep living. Life goes on. Deal with it. Breathe… swallow it… keep walking… keep busy. Don’t stop for a chat or to smell the roses… walk… head high… chest out. Like nothing ever happened… This is your lot in life. Live with it. Fake it ’til you make it… and lie.

“Mourn not just for the loss of what was but also for what will never be. And then, gently, lovingly let go…”