I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do. It’s about to be winter- it’s pitch black by 5pm. It’s been six months since I went into labor. Six long months. Six short months.
Since I started writing my NaNoWriMo I’ve been trying to think of my son as my little ghost, instead of my dead baby. He’s not gone, dead. He’s here with me, with us, he’s everywhere. For some reason I like to talk to him in the gym shower- there’s something about that really small, brightly lit space that makes me miss him and feel his presence. The psychic told me too that I’d feel him when I was around water.
I was tying to figure out why this week felt so different- I’m back to being so depressed and so hollow. I finally figured it out (at the shrink’s office): 6 months is as long as the doctors said I should wait before conceiving again. I mean, they said 3-6 months. We’re one day past 6 months. I guess my lady bits should be good to go. Sigh. Now it’s all up to my brain.
Happy Birthday Baby Boy
