Ugh. I hate moving.
I hated moving before. Now I really hate it.
And I have no energy for it.
Dave and I cleaned our closets out today, trying to get ready for the movers to come next week. We probably cleared about 9 trashbags full of clothes we were throwing away. Sad, right? Wow. I can't believe he and I even have that many clothes together.
Of course, I ran across lots of the clothes I wore while pregnant with Georgie. I had a small laundry hamper in the corner of my closet that had a lot of the dresses I wore in the third trimester. One was a really sweet little navy dress with red roses on it. Another was a random strappy dress, blue and white, that I wore just three days before she died, for St. Patrick's Day.
Needless to say, I felt about 90 years old after cleaning the closet out. A year ago, I would have bounced into another project right away. Today, I finished, rolled into bed, and cried.
This doesn't even include the feeling of dread I have about packing up her nursery. I just can't stand it.
One of the hard things about "dealing with everything well" is that everyone thinks I'm doing ok. Well, I'm not. I'm able to work, and clean up (most of the time), and talk to people, etc...I look "normal," most days.
But inside, I am still raw. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts a lot of the time. Sometimes it's one minute at a time. Sleep is good when I get it, not often. Mornings are a nightmare, repeated every day.
Everyone thinks I'm doing great. My counselor, who specializes in late term pregnancy loss and postpartum, says I am doing better than any woman she's ever seen who has dealt with a stillbirth. I just don't know how to take that. Does that mean I'm better at hiding it than others? That I am better at putting on a normal face?
Well, whatever it looks like from the outside, inside it mostly feels impossible. I told Dave maybe I should just collapse in a crying heap in the corner and rock myself back and forth. Then people will treat me how I feel, not how they think I feel based on how I act.
This post was supposed to be about moving. Then it turned into a rant. Oh well.