2013

I made it through that first year without her.
Part of me wanted to cling to 2012, to stop the calender from changing. 2012 was all I had of her.
But I can't stop time, as much as I may want to, and it's 2013 now.
2013, a time, I hope, to get back up on my feet.
2013, I hope, will be the year I learn how to live again.
2013, I hope, will be the year i change out of these grief clothes and pick myself up off the floor.
2013, I hope, will be the year I make myself into a person worth loving, a person worth being.

I'm sitting here in yoga pants and a tee shirt that is much too big on me. There's a drink on the corner of my desk, because I need one.
I haven't slept in weeks, and on the 30th of December I was filled with such grief and longing for my baby girl I cried out, saying I just want to die.
I don't know how to live in a world where my daughter doesn't.
And so I keep running, running over all these pieces of glass that symbolize my past and they cut into my feet and make them bleed but if I stop running I'll have to face everything I'm so skillfully avoiding and I'll have to come face to face with my grief and turn it over in my hands and examine it and maybe even invite it in for some tea and let it stay a while so I can get to know it a little better. Maybe grief will even spend the night so I can examine it in it's sleep, if grief ever sleeps.
For that reason alone - because facing my demons scares me almost as much as delivering a dead baby did - I will keep running.
I'll sit here and take another sip of my drink and wrap my sweater around me a little tighter to ward off the chill. I'll turn on loud music so I can no longer hear death knocking at my door. And in avoiding I will be running.
I hope in 2013 I can learn to stop running.