1:20 am grief

this thing called grief keeps me up later than my original night-owl self prefers. 

this thing called grief has me clinging to a teddy bear at night for comfort. whispering to it secrets I want to tell my daughter. talking to it. imagining making a sling and carrying the bear around while I do chores so I can feel like a momma. 

this thing called grief has me eating mint chocolate chip ice cream as comfort. 

this thing called grief has me feeling antsy and anxious all the time. the drive to do something is almost overwhelming even for my ADD self. 

this thing called grief has me self-analyzing every tiny aspect of me and twisting it into negativity. 

this thing called grief has been haunting me since Feb. 18th. and even then it was no stranger. 

this thing called grief I see at night. 

Taunting me. Drowning me. Whispering lies. And yet giving Hope. 

it has me wandering through our apartment throwing memories of pregnancy at me and how Amara was here but now she's not. it throws up imaginations of the bassinet at the foot of my bed. it throws in little kicks of baby girl and I forget for a second and reach down to poke at her. I am reminded by my flat stomach that she is gone. grief has me putting baby clothes in a box to look at when I want but not where I am constantly reminded of my empty arms.

grief has overwhelmed me at times. stumbling upon an account with a baby girl named Amara had me crying that I would never see my daughter again on this earth. it has me staring at my scarred body and feeling ashamed because my arms are empty. it has me getting into my car quickly so the neighbors don't see that I am empty-handed. 

grief has told me that my body was ruined for a baby who didn't live. grief has told me to be ashamed because I lost my infant. grief has told me she died because my body wasn't healthy enough. grief has told me that I didn't kiss her enough, didn't say 'I love you' enough, didn't stare at her, caress her, or adore her enough. grief has told me I wasn't a good mom for leaving her in the hospital room because I couldn't hand her to the funeral home. grief has told me many, many a lie since the day she was born. 

but. 

By God's beautiful grace, I find hope. I am strong enough to visit her grave and pick wildflowers for her because I have hope. I talk about her all the time because I have hope. I talk about her future siblings because I have hope. I see people's kindness and I have hope. 

I believe so I have hope.