Some days I feel like some crazy stranger. One minute I'm crying as an overpowering, horrible pain claws deep grooves into my heart, shredding it into what I hope will soon be a numb lump of hardened muscle that won't make me hurt so much, and the next I'm googling psychics to try and find someone who might tell me my little girl is happy and wanting me to know that she's waiting for me in the afterlife, her, not her as a star or a blade of grass or a frigging cloud, but her. My daughter. She's there, waiting for me. I want to tell her I love her, again. I want to feel her little arms wrapped around my neck.

I'm so mad. so enraged. Confused, lost, sad, so very angry. I'm not even sure who I'm mad at. The doctors and nurses, for sure. But in general, I'm mad at the whole world. Not all the time do I feel this bad, but right now, today, I do.

Last month, when my baby died, I printed out things I'd found while scouring the internet, things that make me feel calmer when I reread them. I'm rereading them right now, hoping I will once again get through this day and tomorrow will be better.

"If I lived a billion years more, in my body or yours, there's not a single experience on Earth that could ever be as good as being dead. Nothing." Dr. Dianne Morrissey.

That usually helps. Maybe not right this second, but it does help.

Did I appreciate her enough while she was here? It doesn't feel like I did. Probably because when our children are alive, we don't think of what it will be like if they die, because that isn't something that can possibly happen. No. They'll be here with us for as long as we're alive. Now that she's gone I think, why didn't I hold her in my arms every single second of every day, just appreciating the fact that she was here with me? Why couldn't I keep her alive?

Did she know how to find 'the light'? Did she leave her body like they say they do, those people who have near death experiences, and float up by the ceiling, wondering why mama wasn't talking to her, wasn't even seeing her?

In the same month last year, my brother was murdered. Because this was such a harsh coincidence, these two that I loved so much going in the same month a year apart, I want to believe that was God's way of letting me see that my baby wouldn't be alone, that my brother would be there to help her, to take care of her until I get to be there with her. He'll explain to her what's going on. This brother was the one who took care of things when he was here. Now he's taking care of her.

I probably seem crazy to anyone reading this. That's okay. I feel pretty crazy.
Tomorrow will be better.

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