When I try to sort out my thoughts in the midst of a painful moment I realize one feeling is standing out. It’s strongest during one of two times. At night, when I try in vain for hours to fall asleep. Second, when I see happy strangers carrying their beautiful babies, contented smiles on their faces. I realize the dull ache that I can’t seem to shake is a feeling of uselessness. There was something I was supposed to be doing now. I had prepared through long months for it. I had dreamt about it, longed for it, studied for it. I believed I was meant to do it. I believed I would be good at it when the time came, and believe I wasn’t half bad when it did. I was supposed to be taking care of her now. Now and for the rest of my life.

It feels as though someone came along and ruthlessly ripped my future straight out of my arms. They dangle at my sides more now, when they should be holding her, feeding her. Keeping her safe. The instinct is still so strong I can’t help but think that I somehow didn’t do my job properly, because if I had she’d be resting her head in my neck still, right where I could continue falling in love with the feeling of her breath against my skin. Fast asleep because it was her favourite spot, the only spot that ever seemed to soothe her, right up until the end.

I’m not easily fooled. I know when someone senses me start to lose concentration and changes the subject abruptly. They ask me a question about something completely unrelated as though trying to ease my brain away from some unknown sad thought they will never understand. And I suppose that’s fine, I never want to be that person who can’t function or is no longer tolerable to be around. I understand their intentions are kind enough: keep her occupied, keep her thinking about happier things, or any thing. Anything else.

I could easily scream or bite or break sometimes. Anything in my wake should be destroyed because I lost her and fuck you, it’s just not fair. It’s the most unfair thing anyone ever could possibly think of in the history of life. She was perfect and beautiful and unbelievably funny. She was mine. And it’s so cruel that I want revenge on a nameless, faceless entity responsible for her not being here.

Instead I breathe. Maybe I medicate or drink too much. I find a way to force it to pass until the next time. You’ll just have to forgive me for it while it remains. Because I just couldn’t care less about what anyone thinks. My anger is much too strong for that.