That girl

Been brave the last week or so.

Dipped my toes back in the giant cesspool that is social networking. And let me just say: hasn't that been an interesting experience. Mixing with the happy folk again, sharing snippets of my life with others. I just thought I would try it on for size. Not sure it fits, but I'll hang around for a while I suppose. Friend list got a trimming again (after my brief reappearance last January). Some saved me the trouble though by having deleted me already. Hah. But that's ok, because there were plenty of new friends to take their places. Friends who aren't afraid of my grief and my need to keep expressing it however I see fit.

Also attended a first birthday party yesterday. Our first since our lives went to shit almost 18 months ago (read: Hope dying). It was ok. This little boy was one of the last babies born to a mum who was pregnant the same time as me. I have only seen him once or twice since he was born, and all of those times have been since Angus arrived. We didn't say for cake, singing and the frivolity though, and we did best to hide ourselves in corners without having to make too much chit chat with people. People who knew, people who didn't know. Both situations are hard. I could see those who knew looking at us with those awkward eyes, especially the parents and pregnant ones. I could see the others just looking at us like "look at that nice young couple with the new baby".

It strikes me though, as I begin interacting and reconnecting with people both face to face and on the laptop screen, forever more, I will now always be that girl whose baby died.

Not that girl they used to work with.

Not that girl they used to go to school with.

Not that girl they used to play netball with.

Not that girl they used to get really drunk on Saturday nights with.

Just that girl whose baby died.

I'm no longer that girl who likes to introduce myself to strangers.

I'm no longer that girl who wants to hold your baby.

I'm no longer that girl who gets excited by your pregnant bellies, longing to feel those kicks from the outside.

I'm just that girl whose baby died.

Now I may be that girl who has a live baby and who looks like one of the club.

I may be that girl who can attend first birthday parties and smile on the outside.

I may be that girl quietly breastfeeding my boy in the corner looking as normal as can be.

I may be that girl brave enough to poke around at my old social networking haunts and "like" your status and comment on your cute photos.

But I'm still just that girl whose baby died.

I feel so different. So broken. So traumatised. So unequivocally different. Still so desperately sad and misunderstood in my grief, although these days I could really care less about that. Nothing is the same, everything has changed. I want to exclaim to the world "I have two kids you know, but one died! Babies do die you know!" But I can't. I don't. I want to scream at pregnant women "be careful. Don't assume. Appreciate what you've got. Stillbirth still happens. GO TO FUCKING HOSPITAL RIGHT NOW". But I can't. I don't.

This is just all part of the internal battle of being the girl whose baby died.

That's who I am now. That's who I will always be.

But hey, I can appreciate maybe that's not how some people see me.

Maybe they do just see me as that girl they used to work with.

Maybe they do just see me as that slightly overweight new mum who really should run a brush through her hair.

Maybe they do just see me as that rude or shy girl in the corner who doesn't seem to want to talk to people and who stares at her feet.

Maybe they could care less about me and my life. Maybe they have really forgotten that my baby died. That I am that girl whose baby died. Maybe that's not how they see me at all.

But to me, I'm just that girl whose baby died.

I'll always just be that girl whose baby died.