TagAngst

We Walk A Lonely Road

It’s a strange and anxiety-filled place to be. Pregnant after a loss.

I don’t feel like I fit in most of the typical “PALS” (Pregnancy After Loss Support) groups. So many of those ladies had late-pregnancy losses. They know the gender of the baby that died. Their baby WAS a baby, not just a grain of rice that was there one day and then gone. I feel silly about how fearful I am, when I didn’t have to endure giving birth to an infant that didn’t live, like so many of them, I just honestly think it´s better to watch milf porno instead of getting pregnant with a total stranger.

But I am fearful.

In fact neither Aiden or I can muster the courage to be happy or excited. I took a pregnancy test a week ago. And then I took another. There was no cute “You’re going to be a dad” or a surprise announcement set up when he got home from work. I just told him, and he said “Oh” and I said “Yeah”. Neither of us knew the right thing to do, so we effectively did nothing. I’m afraid to let myself get attached to the idea. I’m afraid to let myself be hopeful that this won’t end in another rush of blood all over my mothers bathroom, and sobbing in her arms until I could barely breath. I’ve avoided going to the doctor because I don’t want to be sent for tests and subsequently get phone calls from concerned nurses that my hCG isn’t what it should be. I don’t want to watch another ultrasound technician squinting her eyes to see something, anything, where something should be. I don’t want to wait in that dimly lit room while she rounds up a doctor to come in and confirm what we already know.

I’m going to a doctor I don’t know on Wednesday. We moved away from the best doctor I have ever had, and it’s too far and impractical for me to drive back to see her.

I’m filled with anxiety and dread, but I am mustering up all of my courage so that I can get through this. I just feel so alone, and that’s probably the hardest part. Aiden, for his own reasons, just can’t seem to be emotionally available right now. He’s working through his own feelings I am sure, but it’s shitty when I feel like I can’t even lean on my husband (yeah the wedding happened, it was lovely, more on that later). I didn’t tell very many people about the loss, and I am even more reluctant to tell people I am pregnant this early on. It just feels like a very solitary pathway, particularly because I don’t feel like I have a place in the communities that were supposed to be designed for people like me.

My loss doesn’t seem tragic enough.

This Is How We Heal

I’m addicted to the past.

It’s like reading someone else’s story now, not mine, not ours.

I poured over K’s old blog. I can see the appeal objectively now, following the shared drama like a weekly soap. We were ridiculous, there were so many comments, I really understand now why we drew such a following for a time. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, I’m not, I have the good sense now to be embarrassed. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the entertainment for entertainments sake. A poorly written novel can still have it’s moments. It was still a better love story than Twilight.

Really I’m killing time. Between purging and packing I give myself moments of respite, and bury myself in this strange yet familiar history. It’s mostly foreign to me now. My heart has forgotten all of the anguish, it healed, even though I never thought it would. Not just thin scabs, but hardened scars, fibrous and strong, protecting all of those vulnerable spots that used to bleed so freely.

Time, it seems, does indeed heal all wounds.

Don’t Be Afraid Of My Scars

I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin.

-Excerpt From: Mouthful Of Forevers by Clementine von Radics

I have to admit, this is the third or fourth attempt I’ve made at “planning” this upcoming wedding. Truth be told, I’m not wild about the idea of getting remarried. It’s a scary place to navigate, knowing so intimately the destruction and devastation of separation and divorce. I tread timidly, only to be startled into sprinting the other direction.

It’s not that I don’t want to be with Aiden. I do. I don’t think that a split, even when unmarried, is easier or less complicated. Our finances are already tangled, which as it turns out is the least of the difficulties (Jack and I sorted the money and debt between us in less than a day or two of negotiating). It’s like I have a mental block. Every time we move towards the proverbial alter, it’s as if the flaws in our relationship become magnified and insurmountable. And there are flaws. We’ve been going to couples therapy (again) since August.  Not because we are at the end of our rope, but because we wanted to improve our communication and uncover any residual difficulties before they got out of hand.  It’s been a really positive experience for us, and while the miscarriage was one of the most difficult things we’ve gone through, we turned towards each other in our grief, not away.  It cemented us together, and things have been actually quite peaceful ever since.

The tragedy of it all actually brought out a part of Aiden that I’d never witnessed before, and melted away many of the doubts that I had.  He stayed by my side for hours while I suffered and labored and nearly had to be rushed to the hospital for loss of blood.  He was so gentle and careful, making certain I had water, pain killers, a heating pad, and whatever else I needed.  He held me while I cried and cried, soothing me quietly, promising me it would be ok, even though neither of us could really know that for sure.  We were at my mothers when it happened, and since then even she has been different towards him.  She remarked to another family member (who related it to me) that she hadn’t expected it from him, and that she could see how deeply he wanted that baby, but how selflessly he sheltered me, in spite of his own very visible anguish.  He was my champion, and it did not go unnoticed.

So it was, in the throes of our mourning, that I suggested we should get married this summer.  I needed something to look forward to.  Something else to focus on, to drown myself in.  My mother, at one time our biggest detractor (she knows all about the poly, the open marriage, the full-meal-deal regarding how Aiden came to be in my life) is now our greatest cheerleader.  She’s been absolutely amazing when it comes to wedding planning, throwing herself into helping me with an enthusiasm I never could have imagined.  It’s likely the main reason I haven’t spooked this time.

I haven’t quite put my finger on what scares me so much.  All the divorcees that I know just nod knowingly when I express being a reluctant second-time bride.  It’s difficult to put into words, and yet it seems to be a universal truth among us.  Maybe it’s a fear of failure, or of being judged for not being able to hold it together.  Nobody wants to get divorced once, let alone a second time.  I’m mystified by people who seem to think nothing of walking down the isle a third or fourth time, I don’t think I could do it.

Marriage is important to Aiden, and I can’t fault him for that.  Despite my scars, he remains adamant about pledging his heart to me for the rest of our lives.  Fear isn’t a good enough reason for me to refuse, it’s simply an obstacle that I will overcome.

What Ever Happened To Shasta Gibson?

I will admit, it has been a great surprise to see that people still check in on me.  I am touched, honestly.  I’ve missed this place, and all of you.

I wasn’t going to dwell in the past, but I feel that in light of you taking the time to come over and say hello, I will provide this small update.

This blog was taken down shortly after I announced that Jack and I were separating.  Aiden moved out, and I moved in with him, more or less.

For a time things were very bad.

However, after the initial pain and anger had subsided, Jack and I were able to be amicable.  Lawyers were never once involved.  We both recovered fairly quickly (I would say incidents of hostility dropped to “rare” within 6 months) and decided that for the sake of our kids, we needed to pull it together and be adults.

It’s been, hmmm, 3.5 years since since I moved out, and we are still a family, all of us, it just looks a little different now.

Aiden and I are still together.  It’s been a struggle, but there will be more on that in the future.  Jack and I have become what I would describe as close friends.  We talk often, and all five of us still spend every holiday together (we take turns hosting, Aiden and I just had Easter at our place, Thanksgiving will be at Jack’s, etc) and birthdays.  Saydie is turning 10, and this Saturday we are all going to Laser Tag with her and a load of kids from her class.  We still co-parent, we just live in different houses.

I am not going to say things like “It’s better this way” because I feel that it cheapens what Jack and I had.  I did truly love him, and a part of my always will.  This is where we are now, and we are working together, and that’s the important thing.  Our kids are happy to have all of the adults they love under the same roof on a regular basis.  They get a lot of support, and are loved dearly by a great many grown ups.

Now, as for polyamory, I am sorry if it disappoints anyone, but after many a long discussion, Aiden and I decided to be monogamous.  Our relationship has been…fragile, ever since we went from a triad to a couple, and we both recognize that adding more people is frankly, stupid.  We wanted to wait until we were solid before we re-visited the idea of being open, and we’re not there yet.

Kink has been utterly non-existent as well.  Aiden and I haven’t played since before the separation.  I still wear my collar much of the time, but it definitely doesn’t mean what it used to.  We are trying to get back there (more on that as well) but we’ve had larger issues to deal with.

Currently I work 10 hours a day, 5 or more days a week.  Aiden works a job out of town, 4 days away, 3 days home.  He’s been at that for a month, and maybe eventually I will get used to it.  We are still ridiculously busy people, and that will probably never change.

Many of the people I used to write about here have slipped away.  The Infamous V is still around, of course.  We’ve been the best of friends for 17 years now, and she’s not going anywhere.  More recently K and I have been talking again, just casually.  He’s been with a really great woman for 5 years now, he seems very happy.

My life has become rather domestic.  I spend a lot of time working and cooking and cleaning.  I have horses now, and several gardens, and I am obsessed with canning.  Long gone are the nights of wild parties, and leaving a string of confused men in my wake.  I don’t stagger home at 5 in the morning, trailing glitter and glow sticks.

I traded in my stilettos for a pair of steel toes, and maybe that will make me less interesting, but I am ok with that.

Sunday’s Are Always The Hardest

It’s always so awkward at the beginning, writing, that is.  I always feel uncertain, even though it hardly matters.

You left for work again today.  I especially hated to see you go after having such a peaceful weekend together.  The three days never seem long enough, even when we are fighting.

I’ve been wandering through my old sex blogger haunts.  It’s sad, because it’s a bit like a ghost town.  Many of the “Old Crew” no longer write.  Almost all of the blogs I used to visit are dead, left to collect cobwebs, or disappearing entirely.  I wonder what became of some of them.  I wonder if anyone wonders about me, or us.

I feel like a stranger now, like I don’t belong in this corner of the web anymore.  Maybe I don’t.

I do hate to dredge up the past, but in this case, it’s allowing me to piece together a person whom I haven’t seen in a long time.  The person I was once, before everything changed, and turned us into people that seem normal at this point, but who are so different from who we used to be.

Four years is a lifetime, on the internet.

Turning over stones can be discouraging.  This evening I found an email I wrote to you in 2010, but it may as well have been yesterday.  So many of the same troubles.  Maybe they will never go away entirely.  We will probably never match up just right, but maybe we can get close again.

It’s not all bad.  I found some erotic text messages, and quite a few words of love.  We used to be quite playful with each other.  We still are, but there’s always pain and hurt bubbling so close to the surface.  Even the slightest nick sends it hemorrhaging out, broiling and burning.

I miss you.  The bed is so empty without you.  Even when I am furious with you I still long for the warmth of your body next to me, of you skin against mine, the soft murmur of your breathing in the dark.

© 2017 Shasta Gibson

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