“Anger is a natural response to injustice. As an emotion, it is neither good nor bad. It just is. When we aren’t allowed to tell the truth about our anger, it becomes explosive, destructive, and tears down the whole world (if only on the inside).” -Megan Devine
I cannot write into anger today, because that’s not the place that I’m in. At least not today.
My most profound anger came after losing Iris. After losing Nelle, I was mostly just sad. Devastated. Shocked. And quickly had to pick up the pieces when I became pregnant again. When it happened a second time, with no known cause, then I was angry. It wasn’t fair and we didn’t deserve it.
Slowly that anger evaporated. Probably because I could not direct the anger at anyone. Who was I angry with? The universe? Hardly a tangible “being” that inflicted unfairness on us. Myself? I struggled with that for a long time, but after months of therapy and countless doctors’ visits, I have to accept that I am not at fault. God? I have never believed that God intentionally inflicts pain on us, or tests us. That’s just not the understanding I have of Him. Without a place to direct my anger, it dissipated and I was left only with grieving.
Sometimes I wonder, or rather, I know, that I would likely feel differently if the circumstances were different. If my daughters had been killed by a drunk driver, I would feel anger, hatred. I might even feel more anger at the universe if I had lost my husband, leaving me alone to care for my children. Instead, I lost two babies that I never met. I recognize that I cannot compare my situation to anyone else’s. It does not mean that I loved them less; but instead of mourning the people that I knew, I am mourning the people that I never had a chance to meet.
The only anger left in me is directed at people. People who should know better, people who are thoughtless. There are times when I want to yell “Can’t you understand how much you are hurting me? Don’t you understand how that is a trigger?” But no. They don’t understand, how can they? Their lives have moved on, while I remain as locked and frozen inside of grieving. September 3rd, 2015 changed me. The moment the words “I don’t see a heartbeat” left the doctor’s mouth, I was a different person. I am not the person who can be happy when I hear about the pregnancies of others. I could strangle people who say things like “Oh, we’re lucky that we had one boy and one girl, then we were done having kids!” while my two girls have their ashes scattered under an oak tree. Any time that someone parades in front of me that they are “done!” having kids, I want to respond “Good for you, that you got the family you wanted, while I still don’t know what mine looks like.” My icy stare is usually not enough to convey the boiling that is occurring underneath.
I am angry… and then I move on. Much as I want to blame people for the stupid shit they say, I can’t. I can’t hold them responsible for being cognizant of my feelings. For being only concerned with themselves in that moment. I am sure that I have uttered some thoughtless things myself. Sometimes the words barely escape my mouth when I wish I hadn’t said them, thinking of where that person has been in his/her life. I have to be gentle with others, as I have learned to be gentle with myself. Doesn’t make the anger any less palpable.