I’m back after a long hiatus and a new pandemic. Blogging in the time of COVID 19. Struggling comme d’habitude. Some new ways, mostly familiar. It’s a week to the 14th anniversary ( must come up with new word for this annual observance that sounds a lot less celebratory) of my miscarriage. Complicated grief. At the time I wasn’t sure if I even wanted a child. Mostly I felt terror. Then the Effexor I was taking at the time made my decision for me, the baby stopped developing. The doctors assured me my body would naturally miscarry but I had some fear that she would stay with me and turn to stone, so I asked to have the miscarriage induced. So guilt, sadness, feeling like I do t have the right to grieve because I asked for the drug yet she was already gone, little Nova. So I grieve. Hearing other people talk about their children always stings. Perhaps it always will.
Depression and PTSD still stalk me. I’ve been experimenting over the last few years with different legal and illegal interventions. LSD, psilocybin (macro and microdosing) THC in oil then edible. The microdosing has been most effective at allowing me some intense emotional release but I have no current source.
I feel seriously stuck, encased in wax. The microdosing seems to be the only way of reaching me. More and more I’m convinced I was a toddler, perhaps even an infant, when I was first traumatized. There’s been so many more direct and indirect trauma since then. Fuck.
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