Treat Yo' Self

Last night I made my triumphant return to the gym.  By "triumphant," I mean I went to the gym.  For 30 minutes.  Trust me, it was a feat of nature.

I was on this arc-trainer elliptical-type thing, and I intended to do 30 minutes of cardio.  I immediately doubted myself - it's been 9 months since I've worked out, and even then I was doing Pilates, not cardio.  But I decided to try it out.  I looked down, and it had been 10 minutes.  And I was okay.  And suddenly I had Sue Sylvester's voice in my head saying, "You think cardio's hard?  Try going through stillbirth, that's hard!"  I knew I could do it.  It was such a small thing, but I realized that if I can walk through fire, I can pretty much do anything.

It was an important thought for me, an important breakthrough.  As people, but as women especially, we are so quick to put ourselves down and believe we can't do something.  We beat ourselves up over everything.  There are very few times that we're truly kind to ourselves.  Every misstep, no matter how large or small, is cause for self-doubt and even self-cruelty.

So here's my challenge, to myself and to you: Be kind to yourself.  Treat yo' self.  You've likely set standards for yourself that no one else recognizes.  Broken promises to yourself that no one else realizes you've made.  Fallen short of goals that no one but you knows you've set.  Because we're all doing it - we're all dealing with the same shit and fighting the same demons.  Mine have different origins than yours, but they're still there.  Telling me I can't do this and I can't do that and I'm a bad person and I let someone down.  Fuck that.  I'm done with it.  I'm a warrior.  I've gone through the greatest battle a mother can go through and I'm still standing.

So stand with me.  Whether you're doubting that you can get a promotion, lose ten pounds, be a better wife, mother, friend, sister...tell yourself to shut up.  You're already doing it.  Every day.  You're fighting that voice in your head and you're persevering and you're moving on with your life.  Give yourself a break.  Treat yourself.  Whether it's kind words or cupcakes (or, my personal favorite, a huge glass of wine).  And then move on.  Just do it is a slogan for a reason.  Get past the doubt.  You owe it to yourself.  And your family, and friends, and children, and pets, and whoever and whatever is important in your life.

Tonight will be the second night in a row I'm at the gym.  And we're meeting a trainer, and I suspect it will be harder (I also suspect - by which I mean, I'm absolutely certain - there will be MUCH more swearing involved).  But I'm going to fight through it.  Because I want to do something for myself.  I owe it to myself to be the healthiest person I can.  And possibly this weekend I'll treat myself with a cupcake.  Or five.  Whatever, I cheat on the weekends.  Shut up.

If I Forgot to Mention It, My Baby Died

Today I had lunch with two of my good friends from college (at a truck stop diner, no less!).  It was delightful.  We laughed and caught up, and it was a wonderful reprieve from my daily life of doing very little.

While we were talking, I brought up my anxiety about going back to work.  "Is it easier for you if people don't bring it up, or do you want to talk about it?" asked Jen.  "I'd rather talk about it," I said, "I'm still a parent.  My daughter died, but I'm still a proud parent who went through something that all mothers go through (meaning birth, labor, etc), and I'd rather talk about it."  I told them that last week I had a happy hour with a group of co-workers, and no one brought it up.  "Do you just sometimes want to yell, 'My baby died!'?" asked Lindsay.

I was thinking about this on my drive back to Milwaukee.  I mentioned the other day that I've found very little humorous about this situation, but for some reason the vision of me yelling, "My baby died!" struck me as rather funny.  There are few things in this world that a person can say that will stop conversation in its tracks.  Unless you're a cast member on this season of "Big Brother" (speaking of, you guys need to cut that shit out.  Seriously.  People watch that show to see who gets fat, who's stupid enough to have sex on camera, and who lies the most.  If we wanted rampant racism and homophobia, we'd watch "The Real World").  Ahem.  Anyway, there are very few NON-racist/homophobic/xenophobic things a person can say that will literally cause conversation to stop.  "My baby died" is one of those things.  It kind of negates anything else you say, and would probably excuse a lot of bad behavior.

Then I started thinking about how far I could really push this.  Some ideas I've come up with:

In my Monday morning meeting at work, when everyone inevitably starts squawking and complaining, I'd like to yell, "Shut the fuck up!  Please!" and then, just before I'm reprimanded, I'll say, "I'm sorry, my baby died."

"That outfit is terrible.  You look really slutty.  Are you even allowed to wear that to work?  I'm sorry, my baby died."

"I can't interview for that promotion?  That's okay.  I mean, my baby died, so it's not like my husband and I REALLY need the extra money."

"What do you mean I can't wear sweatpants to work?  I gave birth (remember, my baby died and I had to go through labor?), and now none of my clothes fit, and you wouldn't let me interview for a promotion, and now I don't have money to buy all new clothes.  Who are you, anyway?  Regina George?  Do I have to wear pink on Wednesdays?"

Perhaps I shouldn't try to push it at all.  But if I'm going to make people uncomfortable, I'd at least like to enjoy it.  Do I sound bitter?  Maybe I am.  My big issue is that people try to say, "I just don't want to make Kim uncomfortable by talking about it."  That's bullshit.  You don't want to make yourself uncomfortable trying to come up with something to say.  By ignoring my daughter's very existence, you ARE making me uncomfortable.  I went through a terrible thing.  One of the worst things.  But it happened to ME, not you.  I don't need pity, I need understanding and support.  Can't you give that to me?  After all, my baby died.

The Blame Game

There are a lot of articles out there about blame.  That when you go through a stillbirth, you cannot blame yourself, because you will go crazy.  I keep telling myself this, and yet I find myself doing it, all the same.

Louis CK has a bit that he describes as, "Of Course...But Maybe..."  The premise is that the decent part of his brain knows something to be true, yet the darker part of him has a contrary point of view (look it up, it's hilarious).  I've been having quite a few of these moments lately.

Of course if I could have saved Emma I would have.  Of course.  But maybe I could have done more.  Maybe I could have been more concerned about the lack of movement instead of getting a pedicure and taking a nap and eating gelato the day she died.

Of course I'm not a terrible mother because this happened.  Of course not.  But maybe I am.  When you're pregnant, you have one responsibility.  To bring your child in to the world safely.  Once they're out, there are hundreds of outside factors you can't control, but when they're in your body, they're with you constantly.  I had one job.  And I failed.  My child died inside of me.  It's a thought that lingers on the perimeter of my mind because if I allow it to become a real thought, it will cripple me and I will never be able to go on.

Of course Jeff and I want to have more children.  But maybe I'm not meant to.  I'm terrified of going through this again.  Since we lost Emma, we've met people who have had 2, 3, 4 miscarriages, and some who have had multiple stillbirths.  How do these people find the courage to keep trying?  Once has paralyzed me with fear.  The thought of enduring daily blood thinner injections and countless extra doctor visits, only to potentially have the same outcome?  It's my own personal horror movie.

At the end of the day, I can't allow these thoughts to overcome me.  So I will try to end my cycle with this one:

Of course it's natural to blame myself.  But maybe doing so is a disservice to Emma.  Instead of worrying about what I could have, should have, would have done, I should be honoring her.  Loving her and remembering her.  Maybe someday I will be strong enough to listen to myself.

Putting the "Ism" in "Defense Mechanism"

I've always used humor as a coping technique.  Whenever things are really serious, I'm the one to be counted on for an inappropriate, frequently ill-timed joke.  It's served me well over the last 32 years, but now I've come across the one circumstance I can't seem to find humorous.

When I was in the hospital waiting for the ultrasound to find Emma's heartbeat, I still didn't realize how serious things were.  I was joking with the nurse as she asked what medications I was on, if I drank alcohol, if I smoked ("Does crack count?  No?  Then no.").  The second we found out Emma had died, I started sobbing.  I didn't know if I'd ever stop.  There was nothing to joke about, no way to make things light-hearted.

Right after I gave birth to Emma, Jeff and I spent fifteen or twenty minutes alone with her before our families came in to see her.  When he came in, Jeff said, "You have to be strong for them."  So I shut it off.  I don't know how I did it, but I shut everything off.  It was like I left my body and was watching the events from someone else's perspective.  It was all very sad, but it seemed far away.  Jeff told me later that I was a rock all day.  I was just doing what he told me to do.  But it was perceived as strength.

So that's what I've been doing ever since.  I have my private moments where I cry, but when I'm around anyone else who is getting upset, I just shut it off.  I keep comparing it to "The Vampire Diaries" when any character "switches off their humanity."  I wish that at 32 years old I had a more profound literary comparison, but my brain has been marinating in pop culture for the last 16 years, and this is the best I've got.  I'm not sure it's the right approach, but it's kept me from weeping openly in public for the last five weeks, so it seems like a good start.

I feel like I should be able to joke or make some witty comment about everything, and it would be better than this shutting down approach.  But, again, there's no humor here.  There's nothing funny.  And it seems disrespectful to Emma's memory to try and find something.  I've laughed almost every day since she was born, and I continue to find humor in the every day.  But not in her circumstances.  Never.  And I think that's okay, that's part of this process, is discovering that I can't resort to my defense mechanism for everything.

I'm starting back to work next Thursday.  Every time I think about it, I am gripped by anxiety that is nearly crippling.  It's not so much the work part that I'm concerned about; that will be fine.  It's the dealing with everyone I encounter part that is troubling.

When you go through a loss, there are a few key phrases that people say to you.  "I'm so sorry."  "You're in my thoughts and prayers."  Those are standard for any sort of death.  Stillbirth is its own kind of terrible, in that it's not something that is spoken about much, so it makes people very uncomfortable when they have to come up with a comforting platitude.  This leads to a lot of comments that are generally inappropriate, albeit completely unintentionally.

I've heard it all, but the one that I have a hard time dealing with is this:

"It's better that it happened this way than if you'd taken her home and she'd died there."

I'm sure it is.  It's better that it happened that way than if a lion had escaped from the zoo and attacked us in the hospital at the same time.  It's better that it happened on planet Earth than on Mars.  I don't need to be reminded of the ways in which my terrible, shitty situation could have been worse.  I get it.  I still think what happened was PRETTY terrible and shitty, though, so I'm not sure what you're trying to accomplish.

I know that it's not an intentional hurtful comment, it's really meant to be helpful.  Please stop trying to help me.  The hardest part is that I can't say anything back.  I have to smile and say, "Yep, you're right, that would have been worse," because this person isn't trying to make me feel bad.  They're genuinely trying to help, and I don't want to make them feel worse.  Telling me about someone you know who had a stillbirth and then died in the process doesn't make me feel any better about the child I lost, it just makes me feel bad for the husband who lost his child AND his wife.

Which brings me back to Thursday.  I'm going to deal with those comments, and the people who don't mention it at all because they don't want to make me (or themselves) uncomfortable, and the people who give me the sympathetic head tilt and say, "How ARE you?"  And then there are going to be the people who don't know what happened and ask me how maternity leave was and how the baby is, and then I'm going to have to tell them and make them feel bad.  I just want to fast-forward a few weeks and get past all of this.  But I can't, and it's one more aspect of my life that I never saw coming.

One Month

In her book, "An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination: A Memoir", Elizabeth McCracken writes about the normalcy of her life post-stillbirth.  When you decide to have a child, you are making a conscious decision to change the course of your life.  When the child you are planning on changing your life for dies, your life remains dramatically un-changed.  There are no midnight feedings, no packing of diapers and sippy cups, no pumping...the crying at night is over your child.  The only thing you carry in your purse are extra tissues.  The sameness of your life is a slap in the face.

I mentioned that last week I had my post-delivery follow-up with my doctor.  I had to take a post-partum depression survey.  One of the questions was something like, "Things have been piling up on me and I have been unable to keep up with day to day tasks."  I asked Jeff, "What do you think?"  He's a normal human man that would like to have sex with his wife again someday, so clearly he said, "No, I think you've been keeping up with everything.  It's been fine!"  I believed him about 0%, but I do think that if I was living in "Hoarders" level squalor he would let me know.  The next day I was waiting for Jeff to get home (he works until 8 p.m once every other week, and it was his turn), and I decided to vacuum.  Because that's something normal people do, and I'm making every effort to be a normal person who maintains her home in a respectable (esque) manner.  I ran the vacuum, and then I sat down on the couch.  I kept thinking of the random sludge that I saw on the kitchen tile and decided to steam mop the floors, as well.  Then I cleaned the sink and the stove, and I organized the linen cabinet.

I felt a twinge of a sense of accomplishment, followed by a sting.  The fact was, I wasn't supposed to have time to do these things.  Day to day tasks should have been piling up on me, and I should have had a stack of laundry to do in the basement instead of a stack of clean clothes to put away.  I am one month out from the birth of my sweet Emma, and I am still struck by the sameness of the day to day.  I still shower, take the dogs to the bathroom, watch the news...little has changed from the exterior.  Yet I still relive the events from one month ago each day.  My mental life, my emotional life, my spiritual life, have been rocked by this loss.  My physical life continues to exist.  Because it has to.

I miss you so much, sweet girl.  I can't put it into words because it's a love that I don't yet understand.  I miss you with every fiber of my being, and it's a pain that resonates so deeply inside of me that it's become a part of who I am in a short time.  I love you, Emma.

Yesterday I had my follow up appointment with my ob.  She's an amazing woman - Jeff and I couldn't have made it through this without her.  I can't believe it's been over three weeks since Emma was born.  I keep reliving what happened when we went into the hospital, so I'm hoping that by "recapping" it here, I can get it out of my head for a while.

On Saturday I went to get a pedicure and have lunch with my friend Nicole.  She wanted to do a "Kim Day" where I would get to do things I wouldn't be able to do for a while once the baby came.  Then Jeff and I went to dinner.  He asked me how the baby was doing, and I realized that she hadn't been moving much that day.  I told him as much, and he asked if I was worried.  I said, "Let me put it this way, if I was worried, we wouldn't be sitting here right now."  Ask me how much that haunts me.  Afterwards we went out for gelato with his parents.  That night, I lay there with my hand on my stomach hoping she would move.  I was getting a little nervous, but I had been to the doctor the day before and everything was fine.  Plus, she had dropped and I knew that she would be less active.

Sunday morning I got up and had breakfast (after helping Jeff install the car seat).  When she didn't start wiggling around after I ate, I decided to call the hospital.  They said I could wait a while to see if she moved, or just come in.  I decided we should go in.  I still wasn't worried.  We were brought upstairs, and the nurse tried to strap on the heart monitor.  She couldn't find the heart beat.  I started to get worried, but was told that it could mean the baby was facing another way.  She brought in another nurse, who seemed to find it.

I was so relieved that I wasn't noticing a lot of the things that Jeff later told me.  He said that the first nurse came in with the ultrasound machine and was starting to break out in hives on her chest.  The doctor came in and started looking at the ultrasound.  She said that the heartbeat on the monitor was mine.  She kept patting my hand and saying, "It's okay, it's okay."  I still didn't get it.  Finally, she said, "If I could see anything, we'd be running back for an emergency c-section, but I'm not seeing anything."  I looked at Jeff in confusion, and he said incredulously, "Are you saying that the baby's dead?!"  The doctor nodded and said, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

From there it was a lot of crying, and Jeff was in and out of the room making phone calls.  I was told that I would have to deliver Emma, and I immediately asked for a c-section (I've found that this is very normal, as most women are eager to just get it over with).  I was informed that this wasn't an option, and was not ideal for later births.  I was wheeled into a delivery room and told that I would be induced.  I told the doctor, "I don't want to feel anything."  Again, from what I've read this is also common.  Because at that moment, you're feeling everything. Your whole body, your whole being, is one exposed, raw nerve, and the last thing you need is one more reminder of what you've lost.

At that point, things proceeded as if it was a normal induction.  I was dreading the birth, yet I had some shred of hope that I was holding onto - she was going to come out and cough and it was going to be a miracle!  She came out and there was silence.  The birth itself was not as terrible as I thought it would be.  And I've come to appreciate the fact that I wasn't given a c-section as requested.  I was able to spend time with my family and come to terms with what was happening, instead of having Emma ripped from my body.  It's sort of a metaphor for the grief process itself.  You can't speed through it, you have to go through the steps.  I'm going through them every day.

Jeff and I just took a long weekend to go up north and visit his sisters.  It was wonderful to get away, but from time to time I did find myself despondent about all of the things we would never do with Emma.  She would never ride the speedboat with us, or jump on the water trampoline, or go fishing with Jeff.  I'm trying to balance those thoughts with some gratitude for the things we did experience in her short time.

I'll never know the color of her eyes.  How ridiculous is that?  There are basic things we should know as parents...length, weight, hair color, eye color, and I'll never know one of those things.  I was very upset about that in the hospital, and Jeff said, "They can be whatever color you want them to be.  I like to think she has your eyes."  It was a sweet sentiment, but I didn't want to guess.  I still don't.  I want to know for a fact.  Even though I'll never know the color of her eyes, I know she had dark, curly hair.  She had my nose and Jeff's mouth, my feet and his ears.  She had my nail beds.  I was fascinated by that.  Such a small thing, but she had the longest nail beds.  She was perfection.

I'll never see her walk or crawl or turn the wrong way in her first ballet recital.  She'll never use the play sets that now sit on shelves in the basement.  But I felt her move within me for months.  Her own ballet of turning, kicking, and punching.  We had dance parties in the car together.  When she grew weary, she would park herself in the upper part of my right rib cage.  Such a stubborn child, I could never get her to move.  What I would give to have that discomfort again.

I'll never hear her laugh or cry or hiccup or say her first word.  But I was able to hold her and touch her and smell her sweet scent.  Skin softer than any rose petal, hands that I was able to grasp in my own.  Jeff and I each changed her diaper and swaddled her.  I held her in my arms and kissed her and cried to her and told her all of the dreams I had for her - for us.

My time with Emma was sickeningly brief.  It was a blink of an eye.  But it was something.  I was able to say things I needed to say and make sure she knew how loved she was.  The things that will never be will never be, and I can't change those.  I am grateful for the things that were, however insignificant they may seem.

Five Things

"Grieving parents don't usually go to the Internet when things are going well...so posts can tend to be gloomy."  Touche, grief pamphlet.  Touche.

Today I resolved to post something positive.  Jeff and I have been striving to do good in Emma's name, and to find good things in our lives wherever we can.  So here are five good things going on in my life right now.

1. I have discovered what a true friend is.  It's more than someone who will laugh with you when times are good, it's someone who will cry for you when times are tough.  Someone who will go out of their way to make you laugh on a bad day.  Someone who will send a card, flowers, a note on Facebook, a text, cook you dinner, or just send out positive energy to get you through the day.  It's been amazing to find these true friends.

2. My family is more incredible than I ever knew.  My sister has basically been a rock, my mom took wonderful care of Jeff and I.  My dad has been an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on.  Jeff's family has been great, too.  His oldest sister and I have grown closer, and that's been fantastic.  His parents have checked in on us frequently.  Our extended family has been a great support system, too.

3. Jeff and I have found our love for another deepening.  These events tend to drive a wedge between couples, or push them closer together.  It's not a big secret that I suffer from depression, and Jeff was concerned that I would pull away from him.  I've made a conscious effort to stay close to him and let him know what I'm thinking, even if it's not, "I'm okay, I'm doing really good today!"  He still loves me, and that makes me love him more.

4. My work family has been a support system I never imagined.  Three years ago, I was working from home.  Jeff urged me to get back into an office for a more steady career.  I was nervous, because change is always scary.  It's been great in so many ways.  I've made incredible friends (those cooks I mentioned in point number 1), and I've challenged myself every day to learn new things.  I never imagined that this group of people could be so supportive.  Instead of dreading going back to work in a few weeks, I'm looking forward to seeing everyone and getting that sense of normalcy back.

5. The good we've been able to do in Emma's name.  We donated all of the diapers and wipes we received as shower gifts to a local women's shelter.  Donations have been made in her name to Make-A-Wish.  I love the idea that a child's dream will come true in her name.  We're seeking out these opportunities because we want to honor her memory and ensure that her legacy will be a positive one.

So that's my list.  There are other things, I'm sure, but today five seems like a good number.  It's a beautiful sunny day, it's my husband's birthday, and I'm going to revel in these five things.

Signs

Jeff sees signs everywhere.  He always has.  I don't know if he looks for them, or if they find him.  We had a Yorkie puppy who had to be put to sleep after an accident five years ago.  The morning after, Jeff went outside and wrote, "I [heart] Moxie" in the snow.  The wind blew away everything but the heart, and Jeff knew that Moxie was telling him that he was okay.

The Wednesday after Emma was born, Jeff was standing in the garden.  He came inside and told me that the tiniest bird he'd ever seen had landed on the edge of the garden, flown to the fence, and sat there for a moment with him before flying away.  "And all I could ask was, 'Is that my baby girl?'" he told me with tears in his eyes.  The following week at Emma's funeral, we released balloons to symbolize letting her spirit go.  One of the balloons caught on a tree.  Jeff went out later to pull the car up, and the balloon came free and floated away.  These signs gave him comfort.  They made him feel like Emma was telling him that she was okay, and he would be, too.

I haven't seen any signs.  On Friday, I sat outside with a book.  I finally put it down and stared at the sky.  Tears streamed down my face as I whispered, "Please, baby, please, give me something.  Some kind of sign that you're okay - that I'll be okay.  Just show me something.  Please."  Nothing.  A leaf fell from our maple tree.  I desperately searched for meaning.  The leaf is a symbol for RTS (Resolve Through Sharing, the hospital's grief support group for people who have lost a child) - that must be it!  But it wasn't enough.  I asked for something else.  Nothing.

I wonder why I don't see these things.  Is it because I don't want to heal?  Everyone else smiled when we released the balloons - it was cathartic.  For me, it was something else to make me angry.  I didn't want to release her spirit.  I want the one thing I can't have, I want her here, with me.  Is it because I'm more jaded than Jeff?  I've seen more death in my life than he has, maybe I just don't have the belief system that he does.  I'm not sure.  I've been paying closer attention to things around me, thinking that maybe I've just been unaware of my surroundings.

Maybe the searching is the problem.  I need to let her come to me and find me when she's ready.  I'll be here, sweet girl.  Waiting for you.

As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, I was amazed.  Aside from the dark line running down my abdomen, there is no evidence that up until two weeks ago, I was pregnant.  I should have been standing there this morning, marveling at how I didn't think my skin could stretch further.  Wondering how I was going to make it through the last few days of this pregnancy in the oppressive humidity we're experiencing.  Instead, I'm sitting here, wondering how I am going to make it through the next few hours without thinking of my sweet baby girl.

I've been muddling through the last couple of weeks with a lot of help.  My mom and sister were here, and they took over all of the mundane tasks that would distract me so I could rest.  So this morning I decided to distract myself with those chores.  I cleaned the bathrooms, ran the dishwasher, watered the plants I had forgotten about, and got rid of the dying flowers.  And now what?  I sit here, and I wonder what I should be doing and feeling and thinking.  I'm angry, and I'm grateful.  I'm bitter, and I'm loved.  I'm lonely, and I'm blessed.  I'm told these are all normal reactions.  Normal for who?  For the 1 in 164 (or 1 in 115, or 1 in some number that is slightly over 100, depending on where you look) women who undergo a stillbirth each year.

Up until two weeks ago, I didn't even think it was a possibility.  Not for me, anyway.  Jeff and I had gone through enough with this pregnancy.  A subchorionic bleed at 14 weeks (another event with low odds - roughly 1%), a car accident resulting in the car being totaled and chronic back pain at 20 weeks (odds of being in a car accident where the car is totaled? 1%, of course), and a number of other, smaller issues.  When I woke up on Sunday morning and Emma wasn't moving (after being relatively inactive the day before), I decided to call the hospital as a precaution.  Jeff and I thought it would be a quick trip in; we even made plans to go to a friend's lake house that afternoon.  An hour later we were being told that there was no heartbeat.  I had been to the doctor Friday afternoon and heard her strong heart - how had things changed so drastically in 36 hours?  

Intellectually, I know there's little I could have done.  It was discovered that I have a genetic clotting disorder that likely resulted in a placental abruption.  I know that.  But I still keep imagining that I could have gone in on Saturday afternoon.  Jeff would be working, and they'd whisk me away for an emergency c-section, and it would be scary and dramatic and touch-and-go, but our sweet baby girl would pull through.  I'm told this is a "normal" reaction, as well.  

Right now my thoughts are clearly all over the place.  I'm angry with myself for not being able to see more positives.  The outpouring of love and support I've received has been overwhelming.  Can I not be happy to have so many wonderful people in my life who will do anything for me?  My husband and I have grown closer through this tragedy.  Does this deeper love not bring me joy?  I think that there is a hole in my heart, and while my heart is fuller than ever of love for my friends and family, that hole and the pain it causes remains, and it is excruciating and dark and all-encompassing.

The happiness will come, I know that.  Grief is a process, I'm told.  The only way around it, is through it.  On the other side I hope to find peace and understanding.  For now I will search for solace in getting these thoughts out rather than holding them in.