A stream of consciousness

I mostly call it the bad day    or the bad thing. It’s “what happened.” I know that I need to say the words. I’ve typed them, but when             the time comes             to form the words and send them sailing                                   over my lips, they                            won’t come, they sting. They crawl up       from my belly and on to my tongue–I choke–I can’t do it. It’s a very grown-up word–miscarriage. If I miscarried then I was pregnant. I was pregnant. If I was                               pregnant, and now I’m not   then I lost it. I lost him (him?). I lost him. I refuse to look up                           what could have         caused                                                                                                                                                                          this. I know that                                  I will find every possibility and lay them all on my own shoulders. It will be my fault and there will be a thousand things I should have done differently.   I’ve already got my theories and                                                                                                                                                          my guesses. I don’t need any                        help blaming myself. Do I have a drink? In this frosted glass is acceptance; I acknowledge                                                 that it’s over. There’s no reason not to. Do I take the vitamin? For whom? For what? It doesn’t matter how much caffeine I drink.              I’ll have the espresso, please. I want to exercise. I want to be                healthy. I want this temple to be at its best–this is something I can control. If I do everything in my power to be a good vessel, I’ll have  earned you. I’ll deserve you. Really, maybe it was my fault for every walk                                                            I didn’t take. Sex. Ohhhhh             sex. The last thing my womb did was let me down. I’m so angry at it. It had one job and failed me. We’re not on                            speaking terms. And you...you want me to love it? You want                     it to give me pleasure? How can you want to be.                 anywhere near it? Join me in my anger. She failed us                                                                                                                        both. It’s a                                    horror. I saw the blood and I knew. I kept, seeing, the blood. Every few hours a new reminder that yes, this is happening. There’s                        nothing I can do to stop it. Where did you go? It’s a trauma,                                                                                                                               to see                                        the evidence to hear the words to read the numbers to schedule the follow-up. It’s a trauma housed in my body--this body. I haven’t                                  given into this wave. I can’t foresee the next one. A wave                                        of pleasure or a wave of death, a wave         is a wave. I can’t give in to a touch. I can’t undress and see anything                    but this body. Where did you go? But he                                      is patient and he is kind. He felt it too. He knows this was trauma and                      he is gentle. He pulls me past the wave and onto                  dry land. He holds me when I can’t swim.                                                                                                                                      I love him. For two                   weeks you were a tiny hope covered in dread. It already feels like lifetimes ago -- you came and you went and the world                            moved forward --  all  in  a moment. I miss                        the grueling                                               months   we   didn’t   spend entwined. There’s this thought in my mind It’s a haunt in my mind. I dream of consciousness.        Just...what if? I felt a flutter was it you, are you here? By God                          why can’t I get into the doctor? To make me wait–to suffer this unusual                                                       punishment–no closure                                                                               no answers.

Erica Saville is a social worker by day and a writer at heart. She is a wife (of one) and mother (of two) who has recently let her reading habit become her whole personality. Erica has worked and volunteered in youth-facing roles for 15 years, with the mission to “create better grown-ups” – herself included. Although Erica primarily identifies as an essayist, poetry was her first love as a teen. She most often writes about motherhood, faith, and social justice. Through writing and through life, Erica aims to release others from suffering in private and calling us into a communing with honesty and bravery.