I am a huge volcano of pain erupting and bubbling over at the most inconvenient of times. I am a raging river of anger, a tornado of swirling hurting emotions throwing trees at innocent bystanders and anyone who gets in the way. I’m dropping houses, so watch out.
Over the weekend, I burst into tears and cried ragged, broken sobs for long periods of time, and then I’d get furious. Raging hopping mad. I walk around the house floating on the rush of emotion as I rapidly swing from up to down to angry to sad to despair to fury, lightheaded and heavy-hearted.
I said to Pace, “I am too full. I can’t hold all this rage and grief; it’s too much for me. I’m too small to contain it all.”
She said, “Well, I can tell you something that will help, but you’re not going to like it.”
I braced myself.
She said, “Get down on your knees and ask for help. The help is there, but you have to ask for it, and you have to be open to it, and you have to really want it.”
I said, “Fuck no.”
I’m not open to it. The Divine, which I was so open to a month ago, can stuff itself. I want nothing to do with Spirit, nothing to do with God(s), nothing to do with any of it.
I had a spiritual epiphany in Ireland. I’ve been opening and growing spiritually since the new year. I’ve been excited and open and learning and reaching out, eager to grok my new-found spirituality. And now I’m slamming a Big Fat Fucking Door shut right in the Divine Face.
I was there before. When I lost my baby, I was on my knees, begging, praying, gasping, desperate, pleading not to lose her. I spent hours there, alone in my sanctuary – my holiest of spaces in my house – begging for help.
I was ignored. Regardless of whether or not anyone or anything heard me, I certainly felt ignored. I felt nothing – no compassion, no love, no assistance, not a damn iota of Grace. Nothing. Nothing for the entire duration of the hell I was in, nothing for over a year, nothing at all when I needed it most.
I spent two months bleeding out the life inside me. I recovered just enough to be devastated again when, two months after the initial loss, I had to go back in for a D&C. Alone, laying on a cold white sterile table, crying frantically til the gas took my consciousness and the doctors took what tiny little bit was left of my daughter-that-never-was.
I spent over a year recovering.
And then, five years and miles of healing later, I felt Divinely Called to be a surrogate. It hit me like a bolt of lightning, after a ritual and a healing session. I’ve never been so sure of my Purpose. I was full of light and joy and meaning. I’ve spent the last two years preparing my body, mind, and spirit to heed this Divine Call and have babies for other people.
Just to have my own body fall apart 6 weeks before I was to get started.
I don’t know what I’m meant to do from here. I know there’s good in everything. I know everything happens for a reason. I know there are bigger and better things out there for me. I even know what I actually need to do, and I know I’ll get there and do it eventually.
But right now, I don’t fucking care.