"Our Secret", Part Three

First off, please know that my blog is NOT going to turn into a rainbow baby blog.  That is not my intent anyhow.  I am writing about my rainbow pregnancy here in order to sort through the highs and lows of that experience, because pregnancy after loss is extremely complex.

That said, this is still my space to GRIEVE for my first born son.  That grief has NOT disappeared with the birth of my second son.  If anything it has brought up a lot of emotions that were hidden before.  But that's for another post.

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Things were rough in the beginning.  I was sick, then not sick, then sick.  So of course my PTSD mind goes straight to, "I must be miscarrying!"  Right?  I mean when you suddenly don't feel ill anymore, it must mean the baby died and your hormones are going down, right?  Not having been in to get an ultrasound yet wasn't helping matters any.  I know many women demand to be seen earlier.  Six weeks or five weeks.  Not me.  I get it, I really do, but in my mind I want to be further along in a pregnancy before I get an ultrasound and potentially don't see a heartbeat and have to hear, "Well it might just be too early" or "maybe your dates are off".  I know how that all plays out and the extra agony it can cause, so I acted like anyone else and agreed to be seen around eight or nine weeks or whenever they scheduled me in.

But.  Then there was the whole I feel sick, oh wait I don't feel sick, okay WTF is going on thing.

So I called and explained my history.  Was given the run around at first and then was finally told to go ahead and get blood drawn to get an HCG level.  Had to go back and have another one a few days later.  Waited, waited, waited until I finally got a call.  The nurse told me my HCG level.  I looked down at the number I had scribbled on my notepad about where my number SHOULD be based on how many weeks I was per Dr. Google.  So when she read a ridiculously LOW number, I just said, "Oh God."  And she asked me how many weeks I was, so I told her, and she got kinda quiet.  And finally said, "Well let's not jump to any extreme conclusions here.  The number does seem really low.  You need to come in for an ultrasound so we can see what's going on."  "You mean so we can verify I've miscarried?" I said.  "Well let's just wait and see" she said.

I got off of the phone and sobbed.  I wasn't numb - I was so angry at the world for bonking me on the head YET AGAIN with ANOTHER loss.  Three babies in heaven and one on earth?  How the hell would I ever survive that???  And should I miscarry naturally, which was so traumatic last time I can't even blog about it...I lost my baby in public and bled so bad I had to go to the hospital...Or should I have a D&C and risk scarring and problems in a future pregnancy?  My mind spiraled to try to think of the "practical" matters while my heart twisted and turned and felt it might just stop altogether.  I called my dear friend M, who helped me through my last miscarriage and has personal experience, and cried. 

My phone beeped, but I ignored it.  Who could I possibly want to talk to right now?  After I finished up my conversation with M, I got off the phone to see whose call I had missed, hoping it was my husband so I could get this horrible news over with.

The number was not one I recognized, but there was a voicemail.  It was the nurse telling me to call her back.

When I did, she simply said, "Honey, I'm so sorry.  I read the number wrong.  Your HCG levels are perfectly fine.  I can't believe I just did that.  I don't know how that happened."

I wanted to scream at her, but I was too relieved for that.  The relief was soon taken over by paranoia that the woman was lying, that she was trying to give me some ray of hope so that I wouldn't stress so much before the ultrasound, so that I wouldn't assume the worst. 

But then of course that's not rational.  And then of course I could view my own medical records to see my HCG results if I really wanted. 

So I finally told my anxious mind to STFU, and I finally absorbed the reality that the baby was most likely fine.  At that point I really wanted to find this nurse and beat the living crap out of her.  I mean really, who misreads an HCG reading to someone who has already suffered a miscarriage AND a stillbirth???  THEWORLDMUSTFREAKINGHATEME!

*sigh*

That first ultrasound...I was so nervous I was literally sick.  I cried in the examination room waiting for the on call doctor to come in.  Dr. V came in and told me she understood my concerns.  My husband held my hand as the ultrasound started, and there it was, this tiny wriggly little baby with a heartbeat.

One baby.

*sigh*

At that point there was joy and sorrow yet again.  Sorrow that I officially had to let go of the dream I've had since childhood to ever parent multiples.  Sorrow that I would never again have the chance to hold my own set of twins in my arms.  Sorrow that I would never get to prove to myself that I could grow and birth a healthy living set of twins.

I cringe to admit any of that, but there it is.

Knowing that even if I could have twins again, it would never bring Elias back, it would never fix my broken heart, it would never make things right. 
Knowing, knowing in my heart of hearts that I didn't need to really prove anything, that I did grow healthy twins last time, that some random medical mystery stole my son's life swiftly, that it was nothing I could have caused short of being in a car accident or taking a tumble down the stairs, neither which had ever happened.

This knowing gave way to joy.

Joy that the baby hadn't miscarried.  Joy in my baby's strong heartbeat and wiggles.  Joy that this was officially a new chapter for us, one that might involve a pregnancy whose outcome for the first time wouldn't entail loss.  Joy that a singleton would allow for my pregnancy to be less sensationalized, easier to keep to myself, less of something that people would brand as my entire identity.  Joy that this one baby had my uterus all to itself, that it didn't have to share with a sibling, that I could focus all my energy on this one, that it could have all the nutrients I was putting in.  Joy that I shouldn't have to do bedrest, that I shouldn't have to worry so much about premature labor, that I could worry a little less about the laundry list of hundreds of things that twin pregnancies are at a higher risk of.  Joy that I could have a "normal" pregnancy perhaps for the first time ever.  Joy that I could prove to myself that I could be "normal", that I could bond with this one itty bitty one intensely and individually, that I could soak up the wonder and excitement of pregnancy a little more not having to worry about the additional risks that a twin pregnancy present.  Joy that my daughter might just have a younger sibling to play with, to bond with, without having to watch a younger set of twin siblings flaunt everything she should have had.

Carrying one healthy singleton. 
Unchartered territory. 
And honestly?
It felt so perfectly right.

Our "Secret", Part Two.

Every pregnancy I've had, my first "indication" of pregnancy has always been an upset stomach.  I attribute that to the initial surge of hormones at the point of implantation, but I'm no doctor.  My husband and I were out of town driving, and I had to make him pull over - find a rest stop - DO something!  I was SICK! 
My husband was all, "You're totally pregnant" when I got back in the car from visiting a McDonald's bathroom.  I looked at him, rolled my eyes dramatically, and said, "Don't joke around about something that serious."

I really didn't believe I was pregnant.  Like I said, in my world, these things need to be mapped out, planned, agonized over.  I proceeded with my life.  I took up jogging.  I drank iced coffees.  I wasn't concerned.

Memorial Day weekend.  I couldn't WAIT to party with one of my best girlfriends.  She was going to bring her husband and their little girl over, and I was so excited to just let loose (once the girls were fast asleep, anyhow).  My husband and I went grocery shopping the day before, and I picked up a bottle of Skinny Girl white peach margarita.  I held it for a few moments before placing it in the shopping cart. 
What was I feeling?  Hesitation suddenly?  Why?  I'd never tried this flavor of Skinny Girl, but it sounded good, so why the nagging feeling I should put the bottle back on the shelf? 

Shrugs.

The next morning, I got out of bed to go pee.  I realized that my husband's accusation of my being pregnant had been in the back of my mind ever since it left his mouth, and I wasn't about to drink alcohol if there was even a chance.  I opened the bottom drawer next to the toilet and took out a home pregnancy test.  (I had a stash of these and also ovulation kits (ha!) built up from the last time we had been trying to conceive.  Whenever we are TTC I tend to test and retest.  I lack patience.  So the Dollar Tree had become my friend.)

I thought to myself, I'm going to prove once and for all that my husband was WRONG, and that tonight, I'm going to do a number on some Skinny Girl.

You can imagine my shock.

That day, I went back to that same grocery store we'd been in the night before, receipt in hand, giggling to myself. 
I only wish I had a photo of that moment.  The moment I went to customer service and exchanged a bottle of margarita for a bottle of prenatal vitamins.

Our "Secret", Part One.

We were talking about trying for a baby during the summer / fall of 2012, so that we could hope for a rainbow baby in spring or summer 2013, if (fingers crossed) things went smoothly. 

Fate, chance, luck, God, whatever you want to call it...had other ideas.

Our rainbow baby was a total surprise and was conceived Mother's Day weekend, most likely on Mother's Day if you want specifics.  I was tracking my basal body temperature (in order to observe my patterns so we could TTC that summer) and thought I had already ovulated, but apparently not.  In reviewing my chart after the fact and showing it to my OBGYN, we figured it was most likely on Mother's Day.  Which, I don't even know what to say about that.  It sounds really corny, but once I realized that, I had a feeling that Elias had sent me this rainbow baby as a Mother's Day gift. 
My other pregnancies we had to TRY for.  Not as much as others have to try - I've never had to endure fertility treatments, and our first pregnancy (which miscarried) took three months while the second pregnancy took six months.  Not long in the big scheme of things, and I realize many women have to wait much longer than we had to, but when you are ready for a baby...Well, every cycle that you aren't pregnant can feel like a lifetime has passed. 
So it was a really big shock to us that on a cycle we weren't trying we got "lucky".  It kind of feels like more than chance, but of course I will never know.  It having happened on or around Mother's Day feels so magical to me and warms my heart.  People talk about signs and "winks" from their babies they lost - a star in the sky that shines extra bright, a ladybug that lands on their hand, a rainbow that appears in the sky.  Well, finding out we were expecting this baby and the timing of it all felt like the biggest wink from my first born son.

The unlucky people got lucky.

My husband was thrilled.
Before my excitement, there were other reactions that came first, I must admit.  I was shocked, then terrified, and then I just started sobbing.
What was I going to do?  Was I ready for another baby?  What if I had another miscarriage?  What if I had another one in five thousand complication that stole my baby just days from delivery?  Would I survive another loss?  What if it was a girl, and I'd never have a living son?  Would I forever be sentenced to stabs of grief every time I saw a baby boy / passed through the boy clothes in a department store?  What if it was a boy, and people thought we were trying to "replace" our first born son?  What if he looked like Elias?  What if it was all too much to handle?

Countless questions flooded my mind.

And then there was calm.  There was hope.  My mind took me by the shoulders, shook me, and said, "You can't control any of this.  You should know that by now.  Just let it go."

And that's when I allowed the joy to take over. 
And that's when I fell in love with this new little life growing inside of me, without worry or fear, miraculously.
I counted on my fingers and figured the baby would be due in late January, right around my birthday, and again the tears fell as I recognized this amazing "wink" from my first born son. 

I had been given the best Mother's Day present I would ever receive, and I also had the best birthday present to look forward to.

Our Rainbow!!!

I never announced my pregnancy here, nor on Facebook, nor on any other social media site.  That is a post for another day though, because for now I simply want to introduce somebody.

William Elias was born on Tuesday, January 8th 2013, at 8:53 p.m. at one day shy of 37 weeks.  He weighed 5 lb 13 oz. 19 inches.  He came out kicking and screaming and breathing and doing all of the things I had dreamed for months he would do.  He had a 9 APGAR score and needed no assistance, no NICU time, had no jaundice, and we got to take him home three days later.

His first name honors my father's side of the family and means "strong willed warrior" and "resolute protector", both which seem very appropriate.

His middle name honors his big brother who will never have children of his own to pass down his name to.  Passing on this name is something that warms my heart, something I feel I can do in remembrance of our first son, and something I hope William will take pride in someday.

We mostly call him William, but affectionately he is referred to as both "Will" and "Liam" depending on who is addressing him.  I have a feeling he will grow into a pudgy little Liam, which I think is a very cute baby nickname, but either way I love that he has nickname options for himself as he grows.

Without any further delay, our third child, our second son, our rainbow:

We adore this new little life.
We will always miss our first born.

We welcome this new chapter in our family story.

We are head over heels in love.

Two Years With Her, Without Him

I can go awhile not posting here.  I'm not like some people who blog daily, weekly, or regularly.  I wonder how anyone can even follow my story or my grief journey.  This blog is hardly an accurate reflection of that, and the slowdown on my part in writing I think is mostly due to the fact that I have just been so.freaking.burned by people.  I said in a recent post that I wasn't going to let that hold me back anymore, and it really doesn't; I focus on the positive people in my life.  So much that I'm actually amazed at how easily I have cut ties with people who have judged me or criticized my grief, because the type of person I was before this unspeakable loss would have never been able to just let go without horrible (albeit irrational) guilt or feeling obligated to confront the person or whatever.  The new me says Good Riddance, as I have learned the fine art of self preservation (don't we all after a loss of such magnitude?), and it's one way that the quality of my life has improved.

On the other hand, I'm not so much for sharing anymore.  Those walls are still way up.  I'm more of an introvert that way, and I don't wear my grief on my sleeve, because not everyone needs to see that.  Not everyone should be privvy to that in my life.  Not everyone in my life should get to see the darkest corners of my heart. 

So aren't I a hypocrite to then share my grief on a "public" blog?  Even periodically?  Still trying to figure that one out. 

I sometimes wonder why I even keep a blog when I want to keep my heart, my soul, my grief so shielded now from the outside world.  I mean, what's the point?  But then.  But then, I go a while not writing, and suddenly a heaviness starts to creep on my shoulders, and it feels like a horrible weight that can only be lifted by paying a visit here and typing away, even though I don't draft or edit and am horrible at keeping up at commenting on other blogs that I visit. 
Even so. 
After hitting "publish", a weight is lifted.  Each time someone comments, I feel a little validated.  Each time no one comments, that's okay too, because that weight is still lifted, and what a blessing that is.  What a blessing this space is.  Even in its horribly neglected form. 

Sadly, I don't know what to say about two years out from the loss of our son.  In some ways this anniversary was easier, but in many ways it was harder.  It was easier in that the grief felt familiar.  I knew what to expect.  I knew that my emotions would be all over the map.  The harder part was the feeling of expectation from others that, two years out, I shouldn't be having a hard time anymore.  Two years out, I should solely celebrate my daughter and forget about remembering or honoring my son.  I could tell when I was honest with people when they'd ask how I was doing (making polite conversation apparently and expecting the canned response "fine, and you?").  I would say (not to strangers obviously but friends, family, etc.) "I'm having a really difficult time with things right now and am really not up for talking" and they would seem taken aback.  "Oh."  Like they forgot.  Like they didn't know what I was talking about, and it took a while to register.

I guess they expected a full update on the party preparations for our daughter, and they forgot that I have two children, not one.  I can't help that her birthday and his remembrance date are one in the same.  I try, I really try, to separate the two, to have his remembrance be the day before so that they can each have their own day, but like any other twins they end up inevitably sharing a day.  Even when I try to make it not so, that's just how it is. 
So I spent his remembrance day feeling like no one cared, and then the day of our daughter's birthday party being flooded with messages, texts, well wishes for the loss of our son.  All well meaning, all appreciated, but it makes it difficult for me to give her my focus and attention even when I try my hardest.  Compartmentalizing would help so much, but it's just impossible to do.  There seemed to be a cruel irony to it all. 

Losing one multiple is just so complicated, and as the months, YEARS?! go on, I am realizing that it doesn't really get "easier" but seems to get even more complicated.  I'm left wondering if it will ever "level out" or eventually we will find our way.  I remember therapist #3 telling me that every year my needs would change (grief-wise) on their birthday and to never set things in stone to do annually because they may not always be necessary.  Yet I can't ever see a birthday where I won't want to at least give a nod to my son through lighting a candle for him, incorporate a butterfly figurine onto our daughter's cake for him, and photograph gifts people have bought in remembrance of him.  Those are rituals that keep me feeling connected, that give me an opportunity to parent him, that bring me some small piece of comfort.

Two years with my daughter have been simply amazing, and every day she grows more of a personality and I grow even more attached to her beautiful self and soul.  She is my precious girl, and I love her so much it hurts.  Yet she brings me so much joy.  More than I ever imagined.  She brings out things in me I never knew were there.  What a gift she truly is.

I dread admitting this, but here it goes.  Two years without my son felt more like an anticlimax, honestly.  I don't think that any remembrance day will ever live up to the first one.  I'm sorry, but his first remembrance day was so amazing, that anything else just simply won't do.  Yet I can't complain, because I will always have that one anniversary to reflect on no matter how unfulfilling the others may seem at times. 

It's just never enough.  You know?  Nothing you do as a parent will ever be enough, because you just want all of your children here, whole and happy, to not have to let balloons go into the air for them or incorporate symbolism into celebrations for them or worry that people will forget about them.  Just to have them here.  And maybe it's as simple as that - anything else just falls so short of what should be.

Thanksgiving and Isolation

This Thanksgiving was incredibly difficult for me. I lit a remembrance candle for my son, and it had burned down all the way by the time we started dinner. This really upset me, but we were hosting and had to rush to get everything on the table while the food was still warm.
I regret not taking the time to light another candle so that Elias could be remembered and represented during our family dinner. I feel like a horrible mother for that. I know that sounds really stupid, but it's how I feel.  The prayer stated before dinner commenced did not mention anything about loved ones passed on, so between that and the candle thing, I was left with none of the things that last year helped me to feel my son was being honored on Thanksgiving.  I had no comfort - just the stress of errands, food preparation, and being social when I wanted to cry more than anything else.

Today the grief has resurfaced full force, and the tears are flowing freely.  I am feeling much like Brooke in her recent post about not being ready for the anniversary of her baby's death.  So much of her post resonated with me.  Of course, our losses were only days apart from one another, so it's no surprise I find myself in a similar spot at times.

I thought I was just tired today because I was back at work from being on Thanksgiving break, but now I realize the exhaustion is from grief bottled up inside.  I have been so detached lately from my grief.  Not processing, not working through things, not thinking things, just staying distracted. 
And let me officially go on record stating that it has bitten me in the ass.

The excitement over fall festivities, Halloween, and Thanksgiving had me distracted.  Now that the next "holiday" is Elias's remembrance day, my heart just feels so heavy.  The hubs and I have decided to do things much like we did last year in that we honor Elias on the day before the twins' birthday, as we want to honor his life (not the day we found out he had died), and we also want our daughter to have her own happy birthday (although obviously there will be tears shed in private as thinking about our son will be inevitable). 

It's all so complicated, and I don't know that it will ever be less so, as it's impossible to completely compartmentalize your feelings one way or another.  Inevitably we will have joyful moments on our son's special day just as we will have sorrowful moments on our daughter's special day, the feelings will bleed into one another, influence one another, and create a messy work of art that is life after loss.  The perfectionist in me wants things to work out less messy, but I know things will never be perfect ever again.  And really, they never were. 

So today I tried to blame my bad mood on so many other things.  Being back at work.  Being tired.  Having a headache.  The list goes on.  But really, I just miss my son.  So very terribly.  And what's worse is feeling like I'm not ALLOWED to miss him.  Like I'm doing my daughter some injustice by being sad at times, or like I'm not being a good friend or wife because I just want to be alone and cry every now and then.  As much support as I get from some people, at the end of the day there are times where I just really feel alone in all of this. 

The pressure I feel to just chin up and focus on the positive is too much sometimes, and I wish I could run off to a little island and just grieve for the little boy who should be sitting side by side with his sister coloring in books, playing with building blocks, and tormenting our cats. 
No one to act irritated or impatient with me and my grief, no one to change the subject when I do acknowledge my son, and no one to make me feel like an inept parent to my surviving child while I grieve the child I lost. 

Is there irony in that feeling alone in this only makes me want to isolate myself more by running off to a secluded island?

A little island without judgment, with endless Kleenex, and with plenty of FroYo.

Rekindled

I have spent way too much time throwing my own inner pity party over the people in my life who have utterly betrayed me.  People who acted like they were being compassionate only to gossip about my grief behind my back, ignore me for months on end, and then make up lies about it all to my face and pretend to be a decent person.

It has made me much more cautious.  There are very few people in my life who have pissed me off to the point where I will always remember it.  I don't hold a grudge typically.  Why waste the energy?  I will always, however, remember one person in college whom I trusted.  We both connected over very deeply personal issues, like food and body image issues, and then she stabbed me in the back and made all our friends choose "sides".  I was devastated.  Yet that pales in comparison with someone feigning compassion, love, and interest after the death of my son only to secretly judge me, never jump to my defense around others, and then ultimately tell me the friendship isn't working.  Would have been nice to know that before pouring my grief soaked heart out, am I right?  Would have been nice if she'd given me some cues as to how uncomfortable I was making her (apparently) rather than play along like a good decent person offering a shoulder to cry on.

I've come to learn that some things are just inexcusable and unforgiveable.  And yet, it doesn't have to hold a power over you.  You don't have to be held hostage to the negativity.  You can walk away.  No strings, anymore, ever.

I've come to learn that some people will literally stop talking to you once you've lost a child.  I can't analyze it.  I've tried.  And it makes no sense.  Never, ever, ever would I do that to anyone.  I've never stopped talking to a friend who has lost a parent to cancer, so I can't relate to just cutting someone out of your life simply because tragedy struck them.  There's no rhyme or reason other than to realize that true colors come out of people eventually, and now that I'm 30, I realize more than ever who matters in my life.  I'm absolutely done trying to phone and keep in touch with people who could ignore me for an entire year without so much as a flinch.  You know what those people are?  Baggage.  Negative emotional baggage.

I'm feeling a lot lighter these days without carrying that extra weight around.  Without wondering when so and so might call, or thinking maybe I should call to try and keep the friendship alive.

I have found some incredible people.  And before you assume they are loss people, that's not what I'm talking about.  Of course the loss mamas (and papas) I've met on my grief journey are some of the most incredible people I've ever encountered, and they continue to inspire me and fill my cup with love and appreciation for community.  But I'm talking about in real life friends that I've made, and only one of them is a loss mama.

The four friends I've made over these past almost two years since our loss have given me this amazing epiphany.  They've helped me to realize that I was doing it all wrong before, that my "friends" weren't really friends before, that it doesn't have to be that way.  That there are people who will actually call you to spend time together and nurture the friendship on a fairly regular basis.  People who work full time, have kids (well, half of them do), have a marriage, have a home, and still make the time in their lives for geniune social interaction.  People you don't have to go a year not hearing from but still call them your "friend".  Mutual respect with both parties wanting something similar out of the friendship, both parties feeling enriched by the friendship, both parties being able to be open and real about the crap cards life deals you at times, both parties being able to let loose and just have a good time.

I am ever so grateful for my four most recent friendships.  They are an investment, and not one I feel I will be blogging about later regretfully.  You see, I have clarity now that I didn't before, and I won't allow myself to be easily snowed or let my guard down so readily.  I realize that some people took advantage of my vulnerable state.  They knew I would spill my heart because my grief was raw and overflowing and needed an outlet.

No more.

The grief is there.  The pain is there.  I will carry it like a rock in my pocket forever, if you like a random movie reference thrown in.  But my friends in real life?  They don't get to see it, not unless that trust is solid, the friendship is balanced, healthy, and not one-sided. 

I am so grateful for new friendships.

My one friend recently met me for coffee and asked me how I've been doing.  Do you know how rare it is to hear that?  This friend doesn't even have children of her own much less understand my scope of loss, and yet she has been one of the most compassionate people I've encountered.  She asks me how I'm doing, and she really listens to my response.  She tells me the death of my son is not something I will ever "get over", not something she would ever expect me to get over.  Her eyes look down at her coffee as she processes her thoughts, and then she looks at me and says, "And in a way, you probably wouldn't want to get over it even if you could, you know?"  Yes.  Yes, I know.  And yet that is so profound of a statement.  Bold on her part, yet so perfectly true.  How does she know?  How does she know that conflicted feeling?  That the love and pain coexist, that the pain in itself is a connection to your child so you could never entirely wish it away, that "getting over it" couldn't happen when your love is and always will be so incredibly profound? 
Because she's a geniune human being, someone capable of real empathy, of putting herself in my terribly uncomfortable shoes in order to try and imagine some flicker of what it might feel like to have lived this unfathomable loss.  She goes on to tell me about her concern for me, that she recognizes that the loss of a child is something that changes a marriage forever, that she has such complete faith in me and my husband that if anyone can get through it, it's us.  She doesn't say it in a way that glosses over my struggles, our struggles.  Most of the time she is quiet, and nods, and seems deep in thought.  At times she acknowledges, "I just can't even imagine how must difficult this all must be."  Otherwise, mostly quiet, never jumping to quickly fill the silence with noise as so many others do in conversations they'd rather run screaming from.  Just sitting, listening, thinking, and abiding.  It amazed me, it humbled me, and it taught me a lesson about the false assumptions I've been making about the capabilities of others and about friendships in my life post-loss.

Compassion.  Empathy.  Openness.  Connection.  Honesty.  Encouragement without being fake, without judgment, without expecting anything in return.

Now that I've found people like this, I realize what a waste of time it was for me to try and hold on to people who were walking away from me all along.  I realize what a gift real friendship is.  I don't feel pigeonholed into this one identity, I don't feel that loss defines me, that the only people I could possibly relate to are other loss moms.  Knowing that I don't have to segregate from the land of non-loss women in order to be loved and respected is a huge epiphany for me, because for a while I was really starting to wonder if I could ever "fit in" with people who haven't "been there".

You have to make the decision that you are worth more than investing in people who don't invest back in you.  You have to be open to letting a little light in.  You have to be willing to accept that some people just won't like you, for no good reason, and that's okay.  They don't deserve to live in your head rent free.  And letting go of those people makes room in your life and in your heart for people who genuinely do.

I dedicate this post to my real friends, near and far, babylost and nonbabylost.  My cup runneth over, so much that there's no room in it for anger or bitterness toward those who have walked away or remained silent in my time of need.  Things are as they are, and I have learned so much about how ugly this world can be, but I've also seen so much beauty thanks to each and every one of you.