Just when I think I'm finally going to get through a day without crying, my arms start to ache. They're empty. It's June 8th, and I should be 38 weeks pregnant. I shouldn't be waiting to bring my son home from the funeral home. I shouldn't be sneaking out of my own bedroom to go sob on the staircase. I should be able to sleep.
I'm trying not to take any pills. I'm relying on my tea currently.
There are times that I just want to pack my family up and move away. Far away where people won't ask me where our baby is. Far enough away so I won't have to face the awkward pauses, the stilted conversation. Far away, to the point where I won't throw up my walls when someone tries to hug me.
I started to watch Juno tonight. I relate all too much to her. I had to turn it off after a few minutes, but I relate so easily to a wise-cracking tough girl. Especially when all I want to do is be held and cry.
I want to run away from all of this. I wish running would help.
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