This week, I have been focusing on breathing.
You might think this is a strange thing to focus on: of course I am breathing. If I wasn’t breathing, I wouldn’t be typing this. I would be dead.
What I mean of course, is really breathing. Trying to breathe deeply and calmly, being mindful of my breathing. Trying to gain an inner peace.
‘Trying’ is the operative word. The week has been a difficult one. It could also be described as ‘trying’, in fact. Perhaps that should be my word instead?
Anyway, the breathing thing is easier said than done. It’s all very well and good doing it when I am feeling calm and in control, but it all goes out of the window when I need it most. With time and practice hopefully I will improve.
I spent a bit of time dotting some pretty post-its randomly in my diary with little messages to myself to find, including ‘breathe’.
I took a ‘day off’ this week, having a relax day. This included having my nails done, and going to the hairdressers. I am pleased with my pretty nails, and with my hair cut and colour. The lovely ladies who do my nails and my hair know about Hugo and everything that happened, and are comfortable with talking about it. It’s a great blessing (to be honest I wouldn’t go to them otherwise) and gift to know them. Vitally, the day included not touching my laptop at all. It was good to chill out for a bit.
Unfortunately, my relax day hasn’t had an enduring effect, besides admiring my very pretty nails and fab new haircut. I’ve been feeling too low, and too angry for that.
The psychotherapy sessions I waited so long for are excellent, but very hard work. Using a wound as an analogy for grief, it is like the scab has been ripped off, and it is being dug into with a scalpel. Yep, it’s as unpleasant as that analogy.
Why am I angry? Where to start…I am angry about this life I did not ask for, and did not want.
The knowledge that grief is forever, and that I will never again see my beautiful boy. I will not see him grow up.
A life that may improve, I want nothing more than to be able to take a baby home, but there will always be a Hugo-shaped hole in it.
Every time I see something about people being happy with their babies, I try to breathe.
Every time I see something about people being unhappy with their babies, I try to breathe.
Every time I see a pregnancy or birth announcement, I try to breathe.
I am angry about being angry…
I try to accept the feeling for what it is.
I try to breathe.