So, in case you were wondering, the emotional and physical toll of two miscarriages in two months is (drum roll please) TEN FUCKING POUNDS. That's right. Ten pounds. I can feel it on my thighs and tummy and I can SEE it under my chin and on my arms (and of course allllllllll around my butt). I don't feel like myself right now. I'm tired and dragged out and I've felt sick for weeks. I need a nap and a vitamin and some damn exercise.
When I feel like this, it's easy to drag myself down to a place where I run through betrayals like a litany. I use them as reasons to wallow and as tools to beat myself up with. It's hard to block those thoughts. It's much easier to let them run rampant and trample my joy.
I'm fighting this harder than I ever have before. I'm putting myself and my family up on a plateau higher than the muck of despair. I'm arming myself with love and light to beat back the nastiness. I refuse to carry this weight as an physical manifestation of sorrow and self doubt. It's time to start walking.
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