Like So

Ranting, raving, burning bridges and moving forward.

When Words Hurt

Ok so I really don’t know who I’m trying to kid by claiming I’m not going to talk loss in this space and I’m going to do some other posts right now. That’s just not happening.

Guys – it’s the one year anniversary of Nadav’s death on the 21st. That’s soon. And the truth is I’ve been feeling the burden of it heavily. So heavily that not only has it been clouding my emotions, it’s been clouding my judgement.

And you want to hear the worst part of it? The cerclage and the bed rest? They start at the same time as the anniversary.  I once thought that might be a good thing, you know – two birds with one stone or something. Now I’m not so sure.

Let me backtrack though for a second by telling you guys something I’ve never shared publicly before to give you a context:

Two days after coming home from the hospital after we lost Nadav, some psycho posted a comment on my blog calling me a murderer. He didn’t know what had happened. I guess he just assumed that I had had a late term abor.tion or something and he decided to advocate for a cause by tearing me to shreds. The psycho obviously was not there looking for context. He (or she) didn’t care to find out how loved, wanted and hard-fought Nadav was. He didn’t care that he was posting a lie.

I never published that comment of course, and over the course of a week or so a group of online friends did my moderation for me, just in case any more psychos wanted to come out of the woodwork. I pretended that I wasn’t hurt by this psycho. But the truth is that his (her, whatever) comment dug deep and haunts me to this day.

I know logically that I had no control over what happened with Nadav. But any woman who has had the failure of her own body cause a loss can relate to this: you always blame yourself on some level.

So on bad days – the ones that require a lot of anti-psychotic meds and a lot of tissues – I hear that word echo in my head: Murderer.

I wish I could say that this experience immunized me against hurtful words. It did not. And the circumstances have of late made things a thousand times worse.

Because I’m on seriously shaky emotional ground right now. The cerclage, the bed rest, the anniversary. Trying to prepare for all of it. A perfect shit storm.

So like every emotionally unstable person even the slightest provocation on my psyche sets me into a tailspin.

I won’t name names or link links, but in the last few days, some shit has gone down. I didn’t want to be a part of it. But then I was. And then I made things worse by losing my shit because I’ve been on such rocky ground to begin with.

Let’s just say things have not been pretty around these parts.

I’ve been wanting to come on here – to write ranty manifestos as I tend to do when I deal with conflict. But I find myself deathly afraid of what will come in the comments. I find myself deathly afraid of reading any comment thread anywhere for fear it will send me into a hysterical crying fit.

After all – a wise woman pointed out to me yesterday – you put yourself out there and people react. You are a public entity merely by having a blog.

My husband also painted a clear picture for me:

If I was in a room with 10 people, 9 of whom told me I was beautiful, and one who said that I was fat and ugly, what would I remember – the sea of compliments or the single insult?

Alas – these days I harp on that single insult. It sits in me and festers. Even well meaning people who simply want to have a discussion make me feel like a thousand knives are being stabbed into my body.

And yes – I know that’s a bit dramatic. Because that’s where I am right now. I’m falling to pieces at the slightest provocation.

The last 48 hours have brought up a lot of questions. Those of you who follow me on twitter know that there was a moment that I lost it and said I was shutting it all down: The blog, the podcast, everything.

But I can’t do that. The podcast firestorm happened on the ALI blogosphere. That makes up about 10 percent of our listenership. There are hundreds of women out there that have no idea what happened, and never will know. And they love the podcast and send us emails every day thanking us for it. I can’t just abandon that. And I can’t abandon this blog. Because I know that at the end of the day I need it – and I need all of you.

Like all of your amazing comments on my last couple of posts.I felt loved, held, and supported.

But there were still a couple of comments that gave me that stabby feeling. Still the assholes who decided that somehow I’m “lucky” to have a dead son. There is still all of this shit happening right now behind the scenes that I simply cannot handle emotionally. I find myself making bad decisions, alienating people I care about, and crying over this stuff way more often than any stable person should.

Yesterday I was recounting all of this drama to a friend of mine who happens to be a therapist. He wisely pointed out that every person’s role in any group dynamic usually reflects their hidden desire to be heard. So the person who put on the guise of support while vying for sympathy in their subtext has a specific need to be heard. The person who posts a passive aggressive attack under the guise of being apologetic simply needs to be heard. The person who flames me completely just because I can get pregnant has a specific need to be heard. The person who posted questions for a discussion – has a need to be heard. And yes – my adamant and lovely supporters readers and commenters have a specific need to be heard.

I write here. I podcast. Obviously I have a need to be heard.

But I am not in any sort of emotional space to do any listening right now. I have a hard couple of weeks coming up. I have enough salty wetness ahead to last me a lifetime. I don’t need to add the salty wetness that can be caused and has been caused as of late in this space, in my email exchanges, or on the podcast.

So at the urging of a few close friends, I’m stepping away for a little while. From everything. I’m taking a break from listening and from speaking. Because my sanity comes first.

I don’t know when I’ll be back. I may come back here to commemorate the one-year mark on the 21st, I may not. I may come back right after going on bed rest. I may come back later than that.

I will be back. But only when I stop being afraid of opening up a comments section. Only when I know I’ve managed to rebuild some sort of thick skin. Only when I know that the hurtfulness, malicious or not, will not echo in my brain like that psycho did a year ago. I have enough demons and ghosts, and I choose to not create any more right about now.

Hope you guys are here when I come back.

And in case I’m not here on the 21st, please light a candle – whether physical or symbolic – for my son. Because he deserves to be remembered, no matter what else is happening.

See you all on the flip side.


I Know! Let’s Color Code It!

A few days ago I received this lovely comment on my pregnancy announcement post:

Wow, maybe you should stop being such a prude, i am glad you stop following most bloggers who post all those things that annoy you, so what if you have to go on bedrest for 6 months, i am 24 and i am going through early menopause while i was trying to conceive and guess what now i cant get pregnant, i least you can!!!, you should thank your lucky stars you have that ability, i used to follow you, but who wants to follow an ungrateful person such as yourself, i truly hope your pregnancy goes well, but when other people try to support you then you make fun of them, it makes me wonder. Get Over yourself!!!

Even though I replied to the lovely “Momoneymoproblems” in the comments thread, her AWESOME showing of both insensitivity and ignorance compelled me to dedicate a whole post to her, and address some issues regarding this space while I was at it.

To save you the clickover, here is my reply to MMMP:

Yay my first hateful comment!
Though I’m truly sorry for what you’re going through, don’t belittle what I have been through. The “at least I can get pregnant” sentiment ended when I lost my son. Repeat pregnancy loss is devastating and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Late term loss is beyond devastating. I wouldn’t wish that on freaking hitler. And I’m Jewish so that’s saying something.
I am nothing but grateful to everyone who supports me. But just like you feel the need to trash me- and on my own blog to boot! – I have every right to let out a little bitter when I am scared out of my mind. It’s how I deal. If you don’t want to follow me, don’t. I gave sufficient warning when I started this space that I was throwing etiquette out the window here.
I hope against all hope that you find a place to let out some of your pent out anger. Maybe start your own blog?
In the meantime, I truly wish you the best.
But if you DARE belittle the loss of my Nadav again I will have no choice but to unceremoniously delete your comment and wish you ill. Sorry- but that’s my son. He was here and he was loved. But for now I only wish you the best, truly. Also maybe some prozac?
Keep it classy!

Oh dear readers, where do I start? Shall I address the Pain Olympics that are such a huge part of why I ran away from the ALI blogoverse? Shall I talk about the ignorance regarding my specific situation? Shall I address the complete belittlement of my losses?

Actually – I first want to clarify. I actually wasn’t upset by this comment. This poor woman’s comment on that post was so misguided and misinformed it was laughable. I was so amused I even took to Twitter to encourage people to come in and keep flaming me. No takers, surprisingly.  So why am I addressing it so publicly? Because I don’t address my history in this space, and it makes me think that some people don’t have a context. So yeah – I don’t want my “About” page to be all about my lady parts. But I guess that my history should be noted. And this sort of ignorance should be addressed.

One year ago I lost my son at 22 weeks. I. LOST. MY. SON. He was alive. I felt him moving inside me. He was loved. Losing him was by far the hardest thing I have ever gone through and like I said in my reply to MMMP, I wouldn’t wish that experience on the most awful person in the world. Being pregnant after that kind of loss is TERRIFYING. Being pregnant after that kind of loss while being stuck in a bed for 6 months with PTSD is both terrifying and SUCKS MONKEY BALLS.

Before losing Nadav, I had had 3 first-trimester losses. In between I also had a dose of infertility, with problems conceiving my current (5th) pregnancy, and having one of my tubes removed after my 3rd pregnancy.

Basically, in short, I have suffered quite a few forms of pregnancy loss, and a little of your “standard infertility” to boot. And yes, all of that sucks. But can I be honest?

None of that even holds a candle to losing my Nadav. Nothing has ever hurt that much and I hope to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that I will never have to suffer that kind of pain again. I lost a child. That. Fucking. Sucks. To say the least.

Anyone who belittles that loss, or the hardcore PTSD that comes as a result of it can suck it. Seriously. If one more person dares to come on my territory and say the words “at least you can get pregnant” I will lose. My. Shit.

When I was sitting in my living room after losing him, keening with grief, contemplating hurting myself, barely holding myself together, I doubt you would have come to me and said “well – at least you can get pregnant”.

When I was up all night a few days back, freaking the fuck out, crying again over my son and at the same time being scared out of my wits over my current pregnancy with B5 – my PTSD in full effect – I doubt you would have come to me and said “well – at least you can get pregnant.”

MMMP – I dare you – heck – I fucking double dare you to get pregnant, feel your baby move, get to know him/her, love him/her completely, and then lose the baby and live with the aftermath. Put that up against infertility and you tell me which is harder since you’re so experienced with these things.

I don’t wish what I’ve been through on anybody. I definitely don’t wish it on you. But if you’re so eager to compare our pain – please, by all means, walk a mile in my shoes.

When I moved to this space I warned my old readers that I would not take “ALI Etiquette” here with me. I have every right to rant, be bitter, and criticize. This is my space, if you don’t like it, walk away. Don’t let the internet door hit you on the way out.

I fucking hate pregnancy memes. I’ve written about that a couple of times on my old blog. I don’t dislike or even judge the people who write them. I just think the memes themselves are annoying and completely unoriginal. If somebody wants to compare their baby to fruit they have every right to. If that’s what they want to use to document their pregnancy they can feel free. And I will feel free to skip those posts and mock them for it. Not the writers of the posts, but the posts themselves. Because I think they’re stupid.

And if somebody wants to mock me back, write a thoughtful rebuttal (always welcome!), or stop reading me because I am outspoken about my opinions, so be it.

But don’t you ever EVER attempt to quantify my pain. Just because I don’t talk about it here every day doesn’t mean I don’t spend every. Waking. Moment. Feeling it.

So yeah  – MMMP – feel free to go fuck yourself.

The same goes for anyone else who dares question the pain I have gone through, the difficulty I am currently going through, or anyone who dares to belittle the memory of my son.

Take a flying fuck. Eat me. Fuck you. Or as MMMP so ignorantly put it: Get over yourself.


When Shit Hits the Fan

Last night I had a fight with one of my oldest friends.

He was frustrated with me because he felt like I was pushing him away, and I was having some seriously complicated feelings about him.

Up until a year ago, whenever he and I met up, we would get into these intense conversations that almost became therapy sessions. We both got a lot out of them and left them feeling not only better about ourselves, but truly appreciating our friendship.

Then, last year, 11 months ago, the shit hit the fan and I lost my son.

Since then I haven’t only been pushing my friend away. With the exception of a handful of people, I’ve been pushing EVERYONE away.

My fight with my friend last night brought that all into sharp relief. I realized why I had been pushing him away. Because I didn’t want to talk about Nadav all the time. I didn’t need more intense therapy sessions. I didn’t want to spend every single conversation analyzing my feelings. I didn’t want that kind of help.

A strange thing happens when a true tragedy strikes you. Well, a couple of strange things actually.

The first is that you stop sweating the small stuff. Whereas once you would spend hours or days over analyzing little intrigues, or thinking the small problems to death, that all kind of stops. Because everything is tiny in comparison to the shitstorm you just went through.

The second thing that happens, is that rather than wanting to talk about it, you long to escape it. Hopefully you’re seeking professional help so you have some sort of outlet, but other than that you just want to get away from it. Because whenever you realize the gravity of what’s happened to you, you simply can’t believe that this is your life.

So you talk about it when you absolutely have no choice, yes. But if a few months have passed since the shit has hit the fan you don’t seek out the topic in conversation.

You don’t want your friends’ help. You don’t want them to help “fix” your problem. Because true tragedy is NEVER fixed. The volume may come down on it, yes. You may go from thinking about it 24/7 to once or twice a day. If you’re lucky, once or twice a week.

But none of it can be “fixed”.

And through the fight with my friend last night I finally realized this. It finally became clear. I keep away from people because I’m afraid they will try to “fix” me.

I keep away because I’m afraid they’ll want to talk about it when I don’t want to talk about it.

And then I realized that a much better solution would be to just tell them that I don’t want to talk about it. To just make it clear that they shouldn’t treat me like I’m made of spun sugar. They should treat me like they used to, with one exception:

To listen when I am ready to talk, and to respect me when I don’t want to talk.

And to never ever try to fix what will eternally be broken.