Too Much, Too Soon? Not for me.

This morning Michael woke up and I watched him sleepily make his way to the closest. He rummaged through his clothes and found a pair of scrubs and walked into the bathroom. Mere seconds later he walked back out and made his way back to the closest. He had grabbed the wrong scrubs and he searched for the right ones. A couple minutes passed and he remained looking. He called my name and said he thought I told him I washed them.  I got up,  told him to move and found his gray scrubs in less than 15 seconds and handed them to him.

I've never considered myself to be a stereotypical woman. I hate being in a kitchen, I hate doing my hair, the idea of staying at home and raising kids and doing housework is a foreign place I wish not to travel.  I don't care about styles, I despise shopping and painting my nails is not my definition of a good time.  Yet even this morning's simple act of finding my fiance's scrubs made me feel like the type of woman a man may need.  The one he needs.

Despite my pregnancy and recent struggles that I'm not ready to talk about,  I am a very devout Catholic. My heart screams out my faith and is consumed by my love for Christ and His Bride the Church.  So being pregnant out of wedlock and cohabiting with my future husband tends to make me nauseated if I think too much on it. I however do not regret my child and I know that living with Michael is my only valid option due to finances.  And so here I find myself,  ready to give birth and living with the one person who truly has me completely.  It is nowhere near the life I envisioned.

Michael moving in hasn't overwhelmed me. If anything, it has calmed me down.  It has made me feel secure. Doing his laundry, picking up after him and my occasional cooking doesn't bother me. I'm in no way trying to play house, but I have easily transitioned into a role I'm comfortable with.  Although too early,  this wasn't a step that I wasn't ready to take.  Change is scary but I often think I handle it better than most.

Lately I feel alone in my transition. I feel more prepared for the life I'm living.  I don't feel trapped or like I've just settled. I am not unhappy.  But I'm afraid I'm alone in this.  I said earlier that I'm the type of woman Michael needs.  But life has told me that often people's needs don't match their wants.

One day at a time,  I suppose.

Write to Me

Although I very much risk the chance of repeating myself,  I love words. Especially the written word. I love getting notes and cards and letters. Writing something takes time and thought. It tends to be less sloppy than when we speak without fully understanding what we are saying.  I suppose like all things,  it is different for every person.  I, however, want to be written to and my best expression of myself is found if I take the time to write to you.

When I first became pregnant I bought a journal for my baby.  I wanted to give her a gift of my thoughts, feelings and all the happenings of my pregnancy with her.  It started off well but I slowly began avoiding writing. The thought always came up but I brushed it aside. I couldn't connect my feelings to my words. Or maybe yet, I didn't want to.  There was too much I felt like I couldn't say and too much I felt obliged to.  I didn't want to be fake, so I stopped writing.

My darling little girl will be here soon and I only have a third of a journal filled out. My desire to pick up the pen is burning but I feel as though I'm being blocked as well. I don't know what to make of this fear.

Perhaps one day,  I'll make a bit of sense.

It's so painful not knowing where to turn. It's heart wrenching having a life filled with people yet no one who you can actually depend on. When your world shatters you hope someone is there to help you pick up the pieces. To hold you while you stare at the remains of who you used to be and what you knew and help sort through the pain. But honestly I've never been that blessed. I've never had a go to person that would drop everything for me and be there. I've never been not afraid to fall, knowing I would be caught.

I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know how to be at this stage and feel this way. I don't know when everything changed and how I completely missed it. I don't know how to attain happiness that I once knew. I don't know how to take a step forward.

All I know right now is pain and that familiar sense of abandonment. And how much I can't afford to be like this right now.

Body Bag

Have you ever felt like you were dying? Every breath is harder to take and you begin panicking as not enough life sustaining oxygen enters your lungs. Your body aches in unimaginable pain and nothing you do eases it. You sit there praying and just waiting for the final blow to take you. Waiting for the last ounce of your strength and fight to fade away. You wait for everything to go dark. But it never comes and you're left without the ability to cope.

I can tell you from experience that actually dying is a lot easier to handle than just imagining that you are. When you actually are dying you have a time frame. Someone gives you an estimation at how much longer you have to suffer. But when you are just imagining it? When every pain feels so real but there is no end in sight? Yeah. That's a million times worse and ironically, more fatal.

I've never felt so naive. So stupid. I feel like I was blindfolded and led down a dark hole as whispers of happiness and life-long promises were filling my ears. When the blindfold was finally taken off I was simply waist deep in a hole, unable to move.

It's an indescribable feeling realizing that you were wrong. Realizing that you aren't the world to someone, you're just part of it.