I came across a series of photos of myself during the third-trimester of my pregnancy tonight and found myself crying hard. It was hard in the moment to fully articulate what it was that I was crying about, but I think I stammered to P. something about the look in my eyes and the loneliness I could see there.
I think just looking back at myself, this collection of photos taken while I sat on my green couch, the one I was on for basically four months straight, brought back a lot of difficult feelings that I don’t think I’ve fully reckoned with. The isolation, the deep depression, the fog I sat in for so long – and those things a byproduct of extreme physical pain that I’m, even now, not recovered from – it’s all so heavy.
So finding those photos tonight, those fragments of a reality I was trapped in and am still trying to find ways to fully escape from, was overwhelming.
There is a peace about those photos, too, though, and I recognize that. A quietness and meditation, just me and baby K. before I even knew who she was, really. And so maybe some of the crying was because of that, too. Missing when she was growing inside me, missing when I didn’t know her face, but knew her heart because it was beating inside me so steady, so sure. She kept me alive during those months.
I don’t know why my body gave out the way it did, and I probably will never know, since the score of doctors and body workers I’ve seen still haven’t been able to give me so much as a good guess as to what happened to me, but I do know that if it had given out like that at any other time but when I was working so hard to grow my baby, I would not have had the strength to make it through.