It’s been 18 months since I wrote anything. Well, anything that I felt comfortable enough to post.
Well, really, there have been so many feelings of discomfort over the last several years.
After Luca died, we did the best we could with ourselves and made attempts to keep going even though it felt like time had stopped. We got pregnant with Elia and I hung on to hope in the midst of the anxiety and fear I would lose another child. Life was already like a grief banana-split, but with some extra special add-ins like a dollop of fucked up post traumatic stress disorder and complicated grief whipped cream. When she was born, it was healing and amazing, but it was also all survival mode.
Nearly two years ago, when Elia was around a year old, I started feeling like I had my wits about me, and I decided that I wanted to begin writing and sharing my posts as a mom. Not just specifically coming from the perspective of a mother who lost her child, but as a mother to a living child, as one of two mamas in a same sex family, as a Latina, as a sorta crunchy mom who lives with depression and complicated grief.
And so I started writing. I was excited. I had shared my idea with a friend, who told me that what I was doing wasn’t new, and that I wouldn’t be offering anything different from any other mom bloggers out there. It hurt my heart when they said that. But for a moment I said “fuck that”, and I went ahead with it.
A few of my pieces were published and were shared on several popular platforms, and before you knew it, the trolls of the internet had lots of shit to say about what I wrote. They commented on my personal experiences, attempting to invalidate them, and trollsplaining why my issues weren’t really issues; that instances where I felt hurt, were in fact, not real, and that I was making a big deal about nothing.
Some people came to my defense, but others continued to downplay my experience as a lesbian, as a Latina, as a mother who had lost a child, as a human who had dealt with so much grief already.
It scared me and made me feel so little, that I departed back into my brain cave. It did seem like that friend of mine, was right.
I stopped most things that made me feel good. Luckily, I was able to get back on some depression meds to get me through the roughest part, and able to wean off of them when I felt like the weight of the day was bearable.
And my daughter, she lifted me up everyday. She continues to lift me up everyday. Even when my brain wasn’t functioning properly and felt like it was melting out of my skull, her bright eyes and silliness and appropriately golden heart and soul, kept me afloat.
So now here I am. Nearly 2 years from the last time I hit the ‘publish’ button.
Content. In transition. Wondering what’s next. Mother of a preschooler. Mother of a child whose genetic material flows through my veins, but one I’ll never get to hug or kiss, or just even, touch. A lesbian. A Latina. Trudging through the damage I did to myself and my psyche over the last few years.
I know I’m lucky. I got out of the deep darks. But they linger, threatening my every move some days. I am my own self-help coach. Elia is my assistant. Gina is my cheerleader. Luca is my spirit guide. They are all on my team, encouraging me to resurface. Reminding me to breathe.
It’s time for some healing.