On Sunday night, I crumbled. Phoenix was crying for hours, refusing sleep. It’s unusual for her. She’s been the mythical baby who has slept through the night since she was only weeks old. She’s not one to cry like that either.
Something in me was triggered and I had a panic attack. I suddenly wasn’t able to separate her cries from a figment of my panic, picturing her as Sloan sobbing for help and nobody rescuing him. Even though the me in reality knew he never did cry out for us, knew he’d passed quietly in his sleep. I couldn’t pull myself out of it, couldn’t even speak a full sentence to tell Justin what was wrong. All I’d had the ability to mumble was “I miss my baby” as Justin held me, tightly as possible until I could breathe calmly again.
I finally gave in to exhaustion and sleep at some point, but I don’t remember when. I’m tired, my body is tired, my mind is tired. Today has felt like I’ve been moving through drying cement with an anvil chained to my feet. Thats how these grief attacks feel, two steps forward, one step back. It’s been a year and a half, but the grief and guilt still tear me apart occasionally. I know it’s normal, it’s to be expected, and it’s okay. But none of those things make it any easier in those moments.
