Grief is such a fragile thing.  When one is grieving, people don’t know how to deal with you, they don’t know what’s right, what’s wrong.  People don’t know when to call or when not to call, when to stop sending cards, or when to send them.

I can say that I feel so alone, but when I do people say "YOU ARE NOT ALONE."  Except I am.

I’m alone and I feel it.  And it hurts.  I know everyone will tell me that they are here for me, and I think that’s great and it means so much except, usually, honestly, they are not here for me.  And when we are together, it’s just never the right time to be The Sad Me. 

And I don’t know what to do about it.  If I didn’t have this blog, I don’t know what I would do.  I don’t know what people do who don’t have a blog.  I can come here and vent my frustrations and try to express my deepest feelings and people can leave a comment and tell me they understand and they care and I read it and I see it and I feel it.

But mostly, when I shut my computer off, it’s not there.  I’m hesitant to write this because I don’t want people to think they have failed me in some way, it’s just a feeling I have, that I know is part of losing James and Jake and I have to deal with that.  But it’s so hard.

And some days are so good.  Some days I feel the love and support of many people, but lately, it’s not there.  I would be lying if I said it was there, there are people I used to hear from all of the time before losing the twins and I don’t any more.   Some people it’s been weeks since I’ve heard from them and I guess I’m surprised because I thought they needed me, too.  I guess I should be taking the next step, except I’m scared, too.  Because I’m different now.   After losing James and Jake, people told me "this is how you learn who your real friends are" and well, I heard it and I believed it, but I didn’t think I would lose anyone.

I know my friends have a strange disadvantage in that they can check in on me on my blog and see how I’m doing.  Except this blog represents a fraction of who I am and what I’m feeling.  In no way can it express everything I am feeling.

I’m afraid to call people and say "hey, how about dinner?" because I don’t want them to expect me to be the same old me, so I don’t call because I don’t want to disappoint people. 

Now I feel vulnerable.  I don’t know how to be me, I want to talk about what has happened because right now, it consumes me and it’s hard to get together with people and just have normal conversations, even though I love learning about people and hearing about their lives.

I’m consumed.  Grief, as I said, is so very fragile.  More than ever I don’t understand it, yet I understand it much more than I used to.  I’ve learned to never take more than two steps away from someone, I have learned to talk to people about their loss and their new life without the person they lost.  I’ve learned to call and leave voicemails, I’ve learned to never ask the person to call me back, I’ve learned to just say I am thinking of you and my heart hurts for you and I know that that is just what that person may need for that day.  That could be the thing that gets them through their day.  There is so much to know and so much to learn and life is so complicated.

And yet, all I need is an ear.  All I need is to have that someone that can sit with me and cry with me and understand me and love me and not judge me.  I don’t want that person to be someone I have to pay $55 for forty-five minutes.  I NEED SOMETHING AND IT’S NOT THERE.  It’s not fucking there and I can’t stand any more.  How much can a person take?  I don’t know.  I see others who have lost, I see their strength and their growth and I can’t imagine that I could be that strong, but I’ll try.  I really try.

Something is missing.  Yesterday, on Memorial Day, marked three months since I delivered James and Jake.  I have this intense desire to include them in our lives in some way.  I can’t have them here in the capacity that I want them or need them, so I need them here in some other form.  I need to know they are with me because I truly can’t go the rest of my life not feeling them.  I can’t do it.   All I want is to be their Mommy.  THAT’S ALL.

Three months.  Three of the hardest months of my life.  I know I’m going to be okay, and right now, as I sit with tears streaming endlessly down my face, I BELIEVE that they are with me.  At least I think I do.  That belief is all I have of them and it’s hard to let it go.

I never thought I could feel this incredible range of emotion that I feel now.  I feel happy, I feel sad, I feel anger, I feel content, I feel despair, I feel joy, I feel empty, I feel full.  And sometimes I feel very, very alone.

And that makes so very sad.

I find it important to say that I’m not angry at anyone.  I’m disappointed, maybe, but I understand.  Situations and relationships with grief intertwined are so complicated, I know this and I understand.  I truly understand.

I know there are people reading this, my family, my friends, people whom I have never met, that would do anything to make the pain go away, and I know who you are, and I thank you.

I realize that many people may not say anything to me because they fear they may say the wrong thing.  I understand that, too.  But another thing I have learned is that something is better than nothing.  In a strange way, I feel lucky to have learned that lesson.  Does that make any sense?

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