Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The Meltdown

The meltdown happened at about nine o'clock last night. It had been building for awhile, that uncomfortable pressure, like someone has corked a steam kettle. When the cork popped, the emotional trainwreck that followed was of epic proportion. I cried, I freaked out, I became a one woman snot factory. I scared the shit out of my husband, thank God the kids were sleeping. After it was done (about three o'clock this morning), I was spent. And embarassed, and sad. Embarassed that my husband has NEVER seen me so utterly and hopelessly fucked up, embarassed that I had actually put words to some of the things I have been thinking of lately and worried that he now thinks I'm a complete mental case. Maybe I am. How tragically sad that I have worried my husband to the point where he thinks I'm a danger to myself. How sad that there is now this wall of words between us that I can't knock down, the things that have been haunting me that I should have kept to myself. It's also pretty tragic that there is still that magnitude of sadness in my heart, the kind of sadness that just seems to cast a shadow over everything good in my life. I miss my son. I miss him to the point where I want to be with him sometimes, and that I suffer with guilt over the fact that he is alone in the ground, alone in his death. I feel like I should be with him. Shane doesn't understand my thinking at all. He said he wishes Calvin was with us, not the other way around. Of course, I do too, more than anything. I would probably give up eternity to have him back with us but I know it's not possible. The devil himself is highly unlikely to appear on my doorstep offering me a deal regardless of whether or not I would take him up on it. So there it stands, out in the open for all to see. Sometimes I would rather die than live like this. Sometimes I want nothing more than to go to the cemetery and dig up my son so that I could hold him again. It's horrifying, I know. But I'm not going to commit these unspeakable acts, it's just the way I feel sometimes. People don't get it. I don't get it. I should have tried harder to keep my feelings under wraps, to contain my sorrow. I am too emotional for that, I wear my heart on my sleeve for all to see and for that I get hurt and judged quite a bit. If I could compartmentalize my feelings for Calvin, shove them away somewhere until I could take them down and deal with them with the appropriate words and response, I would. I'm not made that way. So I continue to embarass and horrify and for that I feel utter and total regret. All I can hope for now is to move past my outburst and keep my head up and hope that I get over the feeling of being judged. If anything, judge me as someone who is very, very sad, not someone who is crazy. I can accept sad but crazy goes nowhere with me.


  1. Oh, honey. Of course you miss him that much. It's too much to bear sometimes. Sending you much love & hoping you get a reprieve from the hopelessness and despair for a little bit. ((Hugs))

  2. I have had so many of the same feelings Margaret. Thanks for writing so honestly about them all and making me feel normal (unless we are both batshit crazy, I'm not sure). You are so not alone. I wish he was here with you.

  3. Margaret you have spoken so many of my thoughts. Just to be with him, I would do anything. You are not alone. This grief process plays with the mind.

  4. You and I are a lot alike. I'm also very emotional and wear it all on my sleeve. Don't think you're crazy, not one bit. You're sad and you have every right to be. We all do.


  5. Sometimes sorrow is like being crazy. Especially when it appears to us that everyone around us is "OK". And maybe they are or maybe they're not. But just because others appear OK, does not make us crazy.
    Our unbearable sorrow makes us mums. Those other people are not mums.
    I love my husband more than anything in the whole world, but I know for a fact that he deals with his sorrow in a very different way than I do. My sorrow makes me act crazy too ... his doesn't.
    Big ((hugs)) to you -- being a babylost mum is bloody awful and hard work.

  6. I have been where you are. I often wanted to join Zoe, then suffered the guilt about what that would do to L.O. I have gotten very close to trying it once, on my very worst day ever.
    On many a cold night I have wanted to dig her up and warm her. I have wished that I had her cremated so as not to even have to think these thoughts.
    The only thing you showed to your husband was that you are human and sad and lonely.
    I know it won't make you feel better but you are doing better than I was less a year out.
    Time, as afraid as you are that it will separate you from Calvin's memory, will soothe your raw soul.
    It's impossible to forget Calvin, but it's possible that some more time will take away some of the sting. As hard as it is, have some patience with yourself.
    I didn't begin to feel more like myself for a good 18 months, and you know I still struggle.
    You've been in my thoughts and prayers. I pray your husband understands you a little better now.
    I'm sorry you're struggling. I know how it burns.
    Much Love, Lindsay

  7. Oh Margaret.
    I wish that I had something to say that would help. Just try and get through the unbearable one bit at a time.
    I know those feelings of embarassment and regret all too well. I'm not very good at holding my feelings in either.
    I've often thought that I let one of my daughters go into the dark alone, that I should have gone with her or that all three of us should have died together.
    Just know that we are out here, all of us in babylost land. We know you aren't crazy. We are never going to be horrified or judge you. You don't have to feel embarrassed or regretful here with us.
    Personally, I don't think it is us that has it wrong. It is the stupid world we live in where a mother can lose her child but is still expected to carry on as though nothing has happened.
    In my humble opinion, THAT is crazy.
    Not us.

  8. I read your post today on my mobile phone, thanks to goog.le rea.der and whilst sitting in that coffee shop my heart broke for you. I know where you are, my dear friend. You know I was there just a couple of short weeks ago. It sucks. It's hurting my heart just knowing the depths you've just been to. And knowing too, just how it feels to have a meltdown in front of anyone, even our beautiful Shane-husbands :-)
    Sending you much love and big, big hugs right now xxxx


  9. Oh Margaret. I'm so sorry. Sometimes something has to give.

    My partner keeps telling me not to bottle it up and share it with him but I don't want him to feel my utter despair and so he gets to see the pressure cooker go off from time to time.

    I wish you peace.