I've seen enough psychotic thrillers to wonder if maybe I'm not in touch with reality.

I mean, this isn't supposed to happen. Maybe it's all in my head, and I'll wake up in a hospital bed somewhere.

I know I've mentioned this before. But it's just not reality. He's kicking and moving, and it's not sinking in that he won't be with us for long.

Zoloft still working, though. Only broke down once this week - after someone mentioned that his Halloween costume could be super cute.

Henry probably won't see Halloween. He probably won't see the Fourth of July.

I don't know if I want him to hang on that long. I don't know if I want him to suffer for my own selfish love.

That's about all, I guess.

We've got our birth plan ready.

We've got plans for what we'll do 'after'.

All we have to do now is wait. Three months until my due date.

Zoloft is working.

Dreaming.

Dreaming makes me more or less depressed these days.

I keep on dreaming the impossible. Like this morning - I dreamt I had my child. But everyone was wrong - it was a perfect little girl.

It's crushing to wake up and know that you're just dreaming. All I want is for this to all be a dream, that I can just wake up and be back to normal. My heart breaks all over again, each morning, and I spend most of my time trying to piece it back together.

Started Zoloft. Fingers crossed that it helps - for the short term.

Carrying to Term

I just read an article about an illegal abortion clinic operating out of Pennsylvania. Basically, a house of horrors. It made me sick. Ed Gein would have been sick.

I'm going to say this right now - I'm pro-choice. I've always been. I don't believe you should sanction things that are such a personal decision, and each circumstance is too unique to have a law confining it.

But, for myself, I can't do that. I just can't. My son is alive inside of me - kicking, turning, pushing on my bladder at the most inconvenient times - and I love him. My responsibility is to do the best I can for him. To take care of him, love him, and ease his passing when that comes along.

The selfish part of me wants him with us for as long as possible. But the other selfish part of me wants it all to go quickly. I just want him to be.. happy? At peace? My little angel? I just want him to have a happy and full life. And we're going to do as much as we possibly can to make that happen.

I just saw this on one of my support group discussion boards.

"As a mother, I have always felt that it was my job to identify what my child needs and give it to them. Sometimes those needs are simple and straightforward as clean laundry, a healthy meal, a hand to cross the street safely. Her needs were not like those of my other children. She needed us to give her a safe and peaceful transition from one world to the next. Carrying her to term did that for me and it gave me the opportunity to mother her until she didn't need me anymore. That knowledge made it infinitely easier to make peace with her death."

I absolutely wanted to earmark that. 

I need to remember. I'm doing this for him. 

Birthdays.

Yesterday was my birthday.

I feel like I have managed to lightly cocoon the grief. Some days I feel grief's razor sharp talons rip at the cocoon - usually right around my heart area. Yesterday I felt it all day long. My throat was tight, and I was on the edge. I kept it mostly together, though, because falling apart wasn't an option. Too many people question me - try to console. But you really can't. It's just not possible to say, "Everything's going to be okay!"

Eventually we'll learn to live, and deal, with everything.

I couldn't bear to hear the Happy Birthday song. My mom tried to sing it, but I stopped her - kind of harshly - because I was losing it. It's not that I'm unhappy that it was my birthday, but that the likelihood of us celebrating a birthday with Henry is so low that I feel clawing in my throat. It's hard enough to manage this on a normal day! A day with a special occasion?! It feels like the soul is burned out and raw.

Strength.

"You're so strong."

I hate when people tell me that. Because I'm not. Or, that is, I have no other choice. I'm dying inside, screaming at the top of my metaphysical lungs. Raging.

I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Strength isn't appropriate. I don't know what this is, but it doesn't feel like strength when I'm constantly on the verge of breakdown.