I tried to write last week, I really did, but I just couldn’t. I started a letter to Maribella for her upcoming birthday, and every time I wrote a line, a tear escaped, each tracing a new pattern down my face, a torrent threatening behind. All while I was numb.

Maribella Rose Maitri Willard was born at 1am on June 21, 2009.  She was born on the solstice and on father’s day, and five days before my birthday.  I went into labor on June 8th, had two water breaks (yes, that is possible) and had her in a birthing tub in our bedroom. To say that she took her time with her entrance is an understatement, and each entrance thereafter, she was to be noticed.

Her birthday is tough every year for all the obvious reasons, what should be a celebration, an emptiness present instead. A void. I can’t say if this was the hardest, but it sure felt like it.  A weight slowly enveloped me at least a week before, a heaviness in my thinking, my body, my doing. My brain short circuiting, simple words lost in a maze of grief in my brain. My fight or flight on an extra edge, making me jump at the slightest noise, my body shaking internally and externally. A wired/tired feeling, wanting to discharge an energy ever so present, but yet too tired to do so.

Exhaustion.

I have always said the grief of her would unravel me. It always does. But I have to stop it else I literally unravel at the atrocity of her death and not being here. Stopping that grief that is constantly knocking, and has been, is exhausting.

And then the thoughts. The dark and scary thoughts. I had to sit down with F last week and be brutally honest with where I was. I know how hard it is because there is nothing he can do, nothing anyone can do. I had to share that the thoughts, the shitty suicidal thoughts were present. I don’t talk about them often. When they first died, it was not a matter of if they were there, it was a matter of how much. I was not going to do anything about it (and still won’t), but to deny that the pain was so bad that I didn’t think of it was foolish. Over the years, they have ebbed and flowed, more around Bella. I know if I don’t talk about them, they gain power. Again, when her grief hits, I stand on the edge of a precipice, trying to hold on with everything I have, not to fall, else I do, I will never stop. She was my baby. She was joy embodied. I have learned to reach out, sorta. Often I retreat to be honest.  Part of depression is that it is a dirty rotten lying bastard that distorts your thoughts.  That does not help matters. It doesn’t help when your mind is saying, god, no one wants to hear this shit anymore, it has been four years, talking about her is such a bummer for everyone. I could go on, but you probably get the picture. Luckily, I know about that lying bastard and tell it to go fuck itself.  But that takes so much energy.  I do the cognitive behavior therapy exercises over and over. Again, more energy.  Trying to put on a good face, go through the motions, do the self care that is necessary, all energy. Sometimes I get sick of fighting. But I must. And I will. For so so many reasons.

I remind myself over and over, the darkest of these times and places do pass. I do have joy in my life.  That yes, their death is always present, a part of my fabric, but I can hold both.

Last week was not easy, this week has been a smidge better. I have been trying to wrap my mind why this past birthday was so shitty. I mean, I expect it to be, but the degree of it really caught me off guard. I talked with my sister, and in her always wise and observational manner said to me, listen, you are still processing dads death, you had to pack up and get the house ready for rent you moved into after they died, and even though you are happy to not be there, you grieved there, you have memories there of the worst of the worst feelings, you are processing what is going on with Jason, and oh yeah, it would have been Maribella’s 9th birthday. I added after my brain clicked into a proper thought, yeah, and I think it is worse now because I could have imagined her at 5, 6, and even 7.  9 is this age that I have no idea what she would have been like, and it is like mourning that as well.

So, here I am.  This is the reality of a murder suicide.  This is the reality of losing your child. I know it is raw, hard to read. It is important though, because I know I am not alone in the loss of a child. I know I am not alone with the pain I hold in my heart. I know I am not alone trying to put on a good face when inside I am barely holding it together. Be gentle if you know someone who has lost a child, check on them, hold them when they need to cry, bring them dinner, whatever you do, do not judge if it has been a long time and the tears are just as fresh as when they died. Do not say it will get easier. Say, I love you, I know you are hurting, I wish I could take the pain away and I can’t. Talk about their child, tell them you miss them too. Cry together.

Maribella, I miss you more than words can even touch, I wish I could see you blow out your candles, I wish so many things. Happy birthday sweet girl…

two days old