Anonymous
Dear A,
This is my second letter, this one written with a different purpose than the first, but in the same vein, the same branch; it’s about healing.
You see, it was only in the last few years that I learned what jealousy felt like. I mean, I had obviously felt it before, but not in such an intense way that I felt the need to name it. People with babies made me jealous, especially those younger than me, even more so those who were also autistic. I wanted them not to have the option because I can’t; I want them to wake up to their reality and not have everything fall easily into place.
The jealousy, however, I can work around with logic and reasoning. We know there is a reason my partner and I won’t be parents; we know that there are multiple areas which would affect that. We don’t know what other people are capable of, and, as hard as it is to admit, we can’t change who we are.
I was not expecting the sudden strike that came from you.
Because before now, I had the sense, the strong understanding following your loss and knowing your stance, that we were the same.
Yes, we had 3,000 miles between us, an eleven-year age difference, and very different lives, but we were both living with the reality of being childless, not by choice. Childless not by choice, and not due to fertility issues. Childless not by choice and, possibly, autistic.
Before now, I thought those cries, sobs and yells through the thick stone walls might be yours. I was being tortured in a dark, cold prison, suffering through constant punishments, but you were here too; you were with me.
I told myself that you were with me, I knew I wasn’t alone, I was heard, even as a faint yell from another cell. I thought I was doing better, becoming more calloused and numb to the pain. I thought my tolerance was increasing; the small pricks of needles no longer throbbing as before, the blood drying quicker.
Then everything changed.
Strangely, I had a very vivid dream that night in which I became pregnant. Now I understand that it was a warning, a sign that I needed to prepare for what was coming.
I awoke to the news of your pardon. You were pregnant. You were free from the pain; the torture was over. I couldn’t have been happier for you. I tried to celebrate alongside the others, tried to delight in your miracle, but deep down I saw what I couldn’t yet feel.
You were free, but I was left behind, cold and alone.
I saw the vile attacks being made about you, comments that continue far beyond March. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know if there is any form of truth to anything being said, but I don’t care whether you were truly guilty. I don’t care because I know what that would mean to me. I know that I would give both my legs if it meant I could have the baby I have wanted and do want so much.
The people spreading gossip, however, didn’t stab me in the heart as much as you did.
I know how that sounds, but I couldn’t be happier that I am being stabbed by this pain, because it means you can feel your joy. I can see it in you, I can see how incredible this is, how special and magical and perfect.
I see the beauty in it, while I stand in a dark, stone cellar, looking up towards the only sliver of light, while the torture continues.
The blades twist inside deep wounds, because I can see the sparkle in your eyes.
The barbs dig into my skin, biting and scraping as the harpoon tips are hauled back to the surface, when I chuckle at the clothing that barely fits all of a sudden.
I feel myself shiver, feel the blood roll down my skin while simultaneously joking with others about the pregnancies of two actresses.
It was the bump pictures that broke me. That made me confess, made me surrender to the pain and fall into this current place. Seeing the way you hold her, that was the final blow.
I see the way you want that touch, how you cradle that little, not-quite-human creature, how you protect your baby while equally seeming to be waiting on the pinch, the wake-up call and the realization that this is all a dream.
I see myself.
I see how I would feel, I see those moments when you suddenly remember that you have a baby inside you, that you are going to be a Mum in the future - and not some day, but sooner than you think.
I am broken down, I am failing, flailing uselessly after each moment of torture, knowing it is self-inflicted, knowing I could try and hide away from this. I felt I was better, I was finding my place within this pain where I could live and thrive, but then you took the knife, you twisted the blade, and for a moment all of that is gone.
You got out, you escaped the torture, and now you are heading towards the perfect, promised and ever so beautiful future, no matter how that future might turn out.
I don’t know if you were in the cell next door, I don’t know that you have felt this pain, allowed to heal for a moment, only to be struck yet again, bleeding, scabs reopened to bite with more ferocity at brand new skin.
We have no real connection. Yet I cried over you and your baby more in those first weeks than I had for a long time. I felt numb, I felt fragile and hopeless, and I had no reason to, other than I had felt seen.
I felt seen, I felt connected, and yet I have never been so happy to be so devastated.
I feel it getting better once more, the wounds bleed less, the skin calloused so the pain bites less deep. I think of how it has taken me three months to feel that way, of how an odd photo or moment can bring it all back. This world is moving on, only to be dragged back. It is two steps forward and one step back; it is feeling betrayed by someone you would never meet and jealous of faces shown through social media’s lens.
Moving forward is learning to live in flux, it is learning that it will never be ok, and that knowing that is all I can do. It is hearing the booted feet open your cell door, dragging you, startled, back into daylight, knowing I will never see it again. Moving forward is knowing this pain will never leave, that it will always be triggered by something or someone, no matter what, but what is most important is learning to recover faster each time.
Good luck, A. I keep you in my thoughts. I mourn what I feel I have lost, but I delight in your joy as the tears run down my cheeks.
I will keep fighting, I will force myself through the torture so I can be there to witness every moment through a screen. I will stand by to watch your dreams come true in the way mine never will, and I will carry on being overjoyed for you. I might just need a little time in between to let the blood dry.
