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Dear You

Dear You,

You are among the great dividers of my life. Like meeting Andrew, Brad, Mike, and my father my life was forever changed and for that, I am grateful. For you, I am greatful. However, I must admit that it unnerves me to know that everytime I think of you, I am filled with hate.

I hate myself for being weak. Too weak to be your mother, too weak to move on, and ashamed of bringing you up to people. I destroy the good humor in every conversation, I focus the attention on me, and I do all of it for nothing because it never makes me feel anything but alone and misunderstood.

I hate my mother, for being unaccessable to me at a time when I need a mom. For having survived this in an appearantly successful way when this is killing me.

I hate my best friends for not knowing what it's like when they just get EVERYTHING else. I hate that I don't want them to know what it's like, whick means all they can do is humor me and that makes me feel horrible.

I hate my husband for not hurting the way I do. I understand that everyone grieves in their own way, but part of me just hates him for being ok when I'm just not ok.

I hate every person I see with a small child. I don't care where I see them, I just fucking hate them.

I hate God. I almost hope he exists so I can spit in his face and march into Hell. I hate him so much.

I hate the doctors who just let this happen to me. They just bumped appointments and kept me in the dark about everything. Tey knew, and they let me have hope. How fucked is that?
I hate the friends who abandonded me for abandoning me. I hate that they will prolly have children before I do.

I hate that I am scared to try to have children. I don't want other children, I want my son. I hate how stupid that sounds, even to me.

I hate that everytime I think of you, I hate everyone on the planet. I hate that I think of you all the time.

I stay up late so that I am the only one awake. I make coffee and I walk around my apartment. I look at the floor he'll never play on. I look in the room I use for storage. I look at the snowglobe Jenny gave me for his nursery, and the books I should be teaching him to read. I think of the bubble baths and the diaper changes and the bottles and stuffed animals. And I cry. Three years ago yesterday I was in the Crisis Pregnancy Center, praying and being told that my son was a gift. That God had blessed me. They showed me videos of abortions to scare me (although I never planned to do that) and they showed me pictures of how my son would look a month later when his heart seized and he died.

This is the reason I lost my faith.

When the doctor told me I had lost my son, he said and I'm quoting, "Well, it finally happened." Appearantly it was in my chart that it was a done deal. Everybody knew but me.

This is the reason I hate everyone else.

I apologize for that. I should be stronger than all this. I should be the sort of person who would make my son proud. But I'm not. Half the time I barely have it together. I thought that you should know the truth. Anyone else who is reading this, sorry for harping and being so pitiful.

Love, me

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