I gaze at photos of my daughter and think, how can she be so beautiful? Her shoulders, arms, nose, lips, long toes, her beautiful hands. Such tender perfection I was only able to hold for a short while. I wish I could have her here to hold and bath with mama care.
I feel cheated. The anger and sorrow are married. They take turns surfacing to fight and make me exhausted. Tonight, I feel both. I am vulnerable to their mission to breech and dive to a greater place of something--awareness? kindness? compassion?--all are a massive, disappointing unknown.
I want to talk about my baby as a baby and not as a lesson to understanding. I hate it. I hate relating this experience to survival on a boat adrift--some days I collect ample survival understanding and others I loose it all, never to be found again. I feel so lost.
I wish I were exhausted from feedings, sore arms from baby holding, anything but this. I loath this pain. I do not want to be in this here and now. It hurts too much.
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