Still Here, Still Angry-Sad-Jealous

I’m not sure that I have anything new to say. And that’s exactly the issue. There is a lot out there about miscarriage. Too much, really, to wade through without a guide. Nothing so far, if I’m honest, that has really spoken to me (though then again, I find myself scrolling through podcast episodes and book titles going, “no…no…no…” – so maybe that’s at least partly on me). And unsurprisingly, there’s nothing at all about having a miscarriage, your body not recalibrating quickly, and a pandemic re-emerging, all while you attempt to go on the academic job market. Rude!

What this has meant in practice, though, is that despite ubiquitous cultural scripts of “you are not alone!”—which are slung with abandon in the world of miscarriage literature—I feel very alone. I feel alone because no one has been me before, and no one can tell me for sure that it’s going to be okay. Of course, ironically, this last sentence is true for everyone, always. In some ways I suppose there is comfort in remembering that “am I/are we going to be okay?” is one of the most fundamental human questions across time. There is some honest solidarity in that, which pushes back against the feeling of being extremely alone in the void.

This is better than I have been able to do otherwise. Because I find myself trying not to talk about it—because, again, I don’t really have anything new to say. I’m scared, and I’m angry that this is the way things are, and I find myself bitterly jealous of people who (at least seem to) have the things I want: a baby, stable and fulfilling jobs, a full life in the place they want to be. I’m morose, crabby, impatient, and judgmental. I worry and wallow, despite the best efforts of my therapist. Despite knowing better, I feel like this is never going to end. All of this together isn’t exactly a pleasant set of attitudes. It’s embarrassing, especially in that there’s been so little movement. Can’t you just pull yourself out of it? Can’t you just be happy with what you do have? Can’t you just trust that everything will work itself out?

It’s like having a pile of hot coals burning your insides. Initially, it’s not so hard to tell everyone you know about this startling development—I mean, there are hot coals burning you up, what the hell?! But then, as you go on, and you seem to be doing okay, doing the things you’re generally supposed to be doing, functioning, it starts to be harder to talk about the coals. “Hi, yup, they’re still there.” [Reassuring smile.] “Mmhmm. And how are you doing?” Because I’m still shitty, you’re thinking to yourself, and it’s not cute. And there’s nothing you can do. And I don’t want to seem like a dramatic, ungrateful mess.

But then of course I am that mess. And I am that mess alone.

I’m trying to do this less, to not hold things in so much, to let people in on the messiness of the mess. But again, what do you do when the answer is still the same, you don’t have a good update, you don’t even really have a good attitude? I guess I need to work on getting more comfortable with showing others—and myself—that shit doesn’t necessarily get resolved quickly. And ask why it’s seemed so important for me to perform otherwise.