Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.
I had a blog for years. I shared and over-shared and for the most part, kept it away from people in my everyday life. I needed a place where I could work through some really difficult times but I didn’t necessarily want the person across the office lunch table to read my deeply personal stuff.
Work was (and continues to be) a place where I needed to draw a line between my painful reality and the equally important reality of needing to hold down a job. Even then, there were many times when I barely made it through the day without closing my office door (thank God for that door!) and had a meltdown.
I had a lot of meltdowns. My boss knew generally what was going on but I needed to keep my emotional distance in order to get through the day, complete my work tasks and just plain function. Oh and did I mention that this went on – up and down – for years? Yeah.
The last few months, I’ve been surprisingly reminded of those times because they’ve snuck back into my everyday life in ways that I thought were either over or – after all these years – manageable.
> Insert raucous laughter from the universe <
I launched this website a few years ago when I could no longer quiet the voice that whispered Write this stuff down. When I could no longer deny that I figuratively needed to write my heart out.
However without meaning to I’ve created another set of two realities. This blog – while being a place where I’ve truly tried to be honest and real – doesn’t really reflect the mindset with which I created the site as a whole.
Enter keywords grief, babies, grief, miscarriage, grief, grace, and oh yeah, grief.
Over the years, by trial and many, many errors, I learned how to navigate the waters of my new reality. To play the system of retaining my sanity while still functioning in the real world. The real world that has babies and children and pregnant bellies around every other corner.
The last few months have felt like I’ve uncovered a nerve that leads directly into the intensity of those past times. Experiencing this “shortcut” feels like a failure. Being brought to tears when innocently being asked before an x-ray if I could be pregnant feels far too familiar.
And yes, I know the whole Grief knows no time limits.
But it’s happening a lot lately and so I hear the small voice whisper, Maybe this is a test. To see if you have enough faith. Because that’s what it felt like back when I was going through the years of infertility treatments, pregnancies, and miscarriages on a seemingly endless loop. I felt like I was being tested. And of course, as in almost every other aspect of my life at the time, I felt like I was failing.
There’s no neat and tidy resolution here. Not to this disjointed post or to the renewed experiences of sadness into which I’m currently stumbling. In this and so many other tests, the answers are not found in a simple Pass/Fail system, but rather by means of a messy, emotional, all-over-the-map essay.