Seven months ago, my daughter was born sleeping.
If you go back through my posts, you’ll see that I say this every month, or some variation of it. I have to say it, because I wake up some days, and I still find it too incredible to believe. My daughter died before she was even born. It’s like something out of a horror story, a nightmare. But it happened. It happened to her.
I’m still accepting that. Still dealing with it. I expect that I will be for a long time to come.
I am not depressed. I’m not happy, but I can keep on living. I miss her, but I can keep on living. But I’m not going to pretend that everything’s alright, because it’s not. I’m not going to act like I’ve gotten over it and moved on, because I haven’t. And I’m not going to delude myself into believing that things would be better if Geordie was employed and we had our own place and we could try again. It wouldn’t change the fact that Lauren isn’t with us. No matter what we do or where we go, her absence will always be present.
People don’t talk about her very much anymore. I don’t hear her name. I’ll admit that I don’t speak it often myself, mainly because it feels like most people don’t want to hear it. Maybe that’s just my perception. That’s okay. I don’t have to share her with everyone; I don’t have to share her all the time. But she’s with me, all the time. She’s in my thoughts every day. How could she not be? She’s my daughter.
Those that do speak of her – or who really listen to me when I speak of her – do so with love, and for that I’m grateful. I know it’s because they loved Lauren, or because they lost a child of their own and know how it feels. I’m grateful for that too.
I’m still walking a path of healing. It’s a long journey; I’ll be walking it a long while. One step at a time.