#so. a few weeks ago i sent an email to a previous professor of mine (who i'm very scared of) cause i needed a recommendation letter

[jackredfieldwasmyjacob]

something fun happened

[my-salty-life]

The news of them made my stomach churn: the girl - a sophomore - left school after the rumors of their relationship spread, and I was left facing the sickening memories that seemed inescapable after receiving them a year ago.

    It began at the start of my junior year; my favorite professor asked me to be his new work study. The previous one had decided to set the school sponsors ablaze with his righteous fury because how dare the English department of a Baptist institution require upper-level English majors read The Catcher in the Rye, a book with one-too-many “GD’s” for his taste, all the while playing Skyrim and boasting about the talent of Marvel movies in spite of their own inclusions of the phrase. Needless to say, the boy soon left the school, ironically opting for a secular institution.

    The offer to fill the place of the English professor’s assistant seemed too good to be true. My previous assignment as the English tutor left me worn, and I was eager to try a different work study assignment. The semester started off well; while the job was not as quiet as I hoped it would be (my professor was very social), it was still enjoyable to assist in various research projects and grade papers. I grew to trust this professor, and he was one of the first people I told about my bulimia. He agreed to help monitor any food that I ate while working.

    My recovery from bulimia was a slow burn, but it quickly worsened during dress rehearsal week of a play I was in. I let the stress overtake me and was hospitalized due to low potassium levels the day after the play. It was during this hospital stay that I received a text from my professor. He asked that I visit his house so that he could give me some soup that he made to help with my stomach (after struggling with bulimia for nine years, my stomach had grown sensitive). I was foolish and agreed.

    That was the second step.

He hugged me when I arrived. It sent an uneasy feeling throughout my body, but I thanked him for the soup and words of worry before leaving. My face felt hot with embarrassment, and I told myself that nothing was meant by it; friends hug each other all the time, and he probably considered me such. 

More signs arose throughout the next few weeks, and yet I shrugged off each one - a hand on my shoulder, his moving my hand to his shoulder when he needed comfort over losing one of his older professors, his hands brushing over mine for a second too long whenever he handed me documents - I shrugged it off as my being too sensitive. I told myself he was just a touchy person, and I didn't understand most relationships, so it wasn't anything major. 

The final warning sign was perhaps the most blatant, but my mind was too set on the professor-student friendship. 

The date is still branded on my memory - it was the day of the second anniversary of my dad's death: December 12, 2017.  He said we should celebrate the end of the semester after my finals and offered to treat his work-study to dinner. I didn't read between the lines. He explained it as a boss would to an employee that he was treating to dinner. It isn't until after the fact that I realize how stupid I was. 

I realized what it was as soon as I sat in the car. His hand went to mine, and my senses turned cold. It occurred to me that this was a date, but I was far from assertive and couldn't find the voice to say no, so I went along with it. I let him hold my hand, I carried on a polite conversation, and I felt dirty the entire time. I remember asking myself how I could be such an idiot as I tried to will myself to speak up.

I failed.

By the end of the “date,” I felt ashamed. I let this professor eleven years my senior hold my hand. I wanted to leave, and yet I wanted no one to see me, so I told him I could walk home. He stopped by his house. I followed, though every bit of me felt sick. I could feel the sashimi trying to creep its way out of my stomach, and I went to the restroom as soon as I arrived. 

I returned, and candles were around his front room. He asked me to sit. I sat down, and his arm snaked around my waist, his thumb burning circles on my hip. It was clearly meant to be a sensual atmosphere. I still feel the guilt of being unable to speak up; I went along with the hand holding and, by the end of the sickening date, held my hand open for him as I saw it as what he wantwed. I didn't want to hurt him. Now I realize that the primary reason for this fear was because of my viewing him as a friend. I thought I had brought this on myself for not speaking up sooner; it was my fault for failing to tell him to stop, and I knew that if I said no, I would lose someone that I considered a trusted friend. I was trying to explain my way out of this situation.

Looking back, “trusted” was a load of crap.

It was not until he tried to kiss me that I gained my voice.

“I don’t want to kiss anyone unless I know I’m going to marry them.” It was and remains a true statement.

    He seemed shocked, and the sound of my phone moved him away. I felt relief at seeing my mom’s text, and I lied amd said that I needed to go because my sister was wondering where I was. He said something about dating, and I said I needed time to decide, only for him to respond by saying that I need to decide right away. I managed to give myself twenty-four hours of freedom, and he stopped me before I had a chance to leave, offering to give me a ride back.

I told him no, that I’d walk home, and that I needed some fresh air. He said okay, but gave me a kiss on the forehead before leaving, and I had to keep from crying. It somehow made me feel even dirtier, like a part of me was being inappropriate while also being cruel for not speaking up. 

The smile he gave afterward still makes me anxious; the TV never stays on when a person makes that expression. It was meant to be a kind smile, but it only made me sicker. 

I remember going back to my dorm and crying in the shower before curling up in bed. My sister was my roommate at the time, and she recognized the negative emotions seeping from me. I didn’t tell her what happened, and she didn’t ask; she simply came up and rubbed my back as I shook silent tears. I found the will to tell an online friend that I’ve known since high school, and she was a huge help through that time; I fell asleep talking to her at around three in the morning.

The next day, I went to the professor’s office, going no further than the door frame. I told him no and left. He emailed me a few times and tried to approach me in the school lobby, but I never expanded on anything until months later, when I sent an email about how I couldn’t stand his touch. He began avoiding me after that. I chose to never report the incident, feeling like I was partially at fault due to my never telling him to stop. It wasn't until the situation with the student occurred that I was able to report what the professor did to me, and even then it wasn't until I had graduated from college, not wanting to report while a student out of fear of the rumors spiraling. The school had the professor removed from campus within 48 hours. 

 I still struggle with the Lord’s telling me to forgive him, and yet I’m trying.He married that student in August, and today marks two years since the incident involving me, and four years since my dad's death. May the professor somehow learn to grow closer to God through this, and may I do the same. 

[prorevenge]

The wrath of the stoner art student.

So I think this would count as pro revenge because I planned it kinda. A bit long, sorry bout that first time really posting this anywhere. TL:DR at the end.

Things to note:

As the title says I'm an art student, I live with my parents while I'm on college to cut living expenses.

Couple of years ago my dad had a security system installed that came with two camera to set up. One pointed at the side door and drive way. One pointed at the street by the front door. So you can see the cars. It has an app we all installed on our phones that gives us alerts.

I also have this shed I asked my parents if I could use for most of my art as it gets messy. I would always clean up after myself but paint still stains the carpet and if I had to smell that tangerine floor cleaner one more time I was gonna barf. I fixed it up a bit, still looks crappy but it's mine. took about two weeks to set up.

We also have a problem of people going through cars....a lot...like ridiculously so. I have a crap ford tempo that I never kept anything important in so I didn't care.

The incident:

As I said I have an art shed and I'm a student of the visual communication program in my local college. My professor had given us our term assignment which was basic but fun. Pick a piece that was in the text book and either write a 10 page essay on it or do a recreation with a two page blurb of how you copied the techniques yada yada.

I was stoked because van Gogh was covered in there and I wanted to do a piece called "cafe terrace" it's a gorgeous piece. And I put a lot of time and effort into this thing...and smoked a lot of weed while doing it haha.

But one night my phone gives me am alert from the security system while I'm at a small party (get together? ) and I see a blurry image of the three teens running past my side door. I thinks odd but I wasn't home to check it out immediately.

When I get home from being driven by a friend from a party I get back to see my car door ajar and i roll my eyes because it's annoying but not new. But then I remember the alert on my phone and went to check around the house. Check the shed last because there's a lock on it, it'll be fine right? I live in canada who is gonna break into my shed ha..hahaha

When I get to my shed it's trashed. Lock on the ground. The material I hung up to over the ceiling was ripped and burned. All works of art I put on the walls were ripped down. My paint was everywhere and my pastels were stomped on. They even broke my fucking little shitty stool I nicknamed hermet.

But the worse was my term project was destroyed, cut apart and then repeatedly smashed.....with my mother fucking bong. My 9mm glass beaker bong that I got as a present. Two weeks before I had turn that fucking project in.

I was livid.

The revenge:

I was able to get a weeks extension as I emailed my professor and sent him photos including the security alert and contacted the police about the destruction of property (still can't get over them looking at my shattered bong and me just whipping out my green card to be safe)

Clean up was a couple days and I did manage to turn my project in on time without the extension by just not going to sleep. First one was better but hey.

I was still pissed tho. I kept thinking of ways on how to catch them or lure them in and scare the crap out of them. So...I left change (loonies and twoonies stuff they would go for) and fives in my cars console. Left my doors unlocked and at the front of the house. I turned on that camera (as it had been off for a while because it would go off a lot) And I kept a bat in the shed and the side door. No guarantee that's it'll be the same idiots but I keep hoping. A few people picked my car but it wasn't those turds so I waved it off.

A month later and a Few days after my finale exams I'm in the shed at 2am smoking, and sketching something when the alert goes off. It's the front camera and I see three familiar looking blurs ransacking my car. I grab the bat and before I set out I hear them coming towards my shed. I flick the string of lights off and I let them get closer before I jump out with a bat in hand.

One of them screams so loud before they book it and I run after them to scare them away. I'm bad a running and fully expect them to outpace me

But one of them cut across my front lawn and slipped on wet grass. He bifs it and I catch up to him and grab him by the back of his hoodie with the bat threatening him

"WERE YOU THE ONES WHO TRASHED MY SHED?!"

"I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I WON'T DO IT AGAIN"

"THE FUCKS YOUR NAME?"

"MATTHEW" his name was not Matthew

"GIMME YOUR FUCKING WALLET"

The dude throws it's and I let go of him to retrieve it and he runs off. whatever.

I pocketed my five plus what I'm assuming was another 40 bucks of stolen money. Took a look at his wallet and his high school id with his real name was there. Fbed his mom and told him what happened and emailed the school as well, mentioning I was a previous student there and that I was "devastated" that this how the school teaches children.

haha

The mom turned up at my door with another mom and a older dude and the three turdlings. They had to apologize to me in person.

Isn't that nice?

(also think my prof gave me a few more points than I deserved on the piece I submitted just because of what happened. Bless you soul Clint. That painting was shit but you gave me 82/100 anyway)

again sorry this was long

TL;DR: Punk kids go through my shed and trash it. Lure them back in a month later and chase them a baseball bat.

(source) (story by PretentiousBanana)

[sadoverstyles]

Changing Lanes; Chapter Two

story page

       Tuesday, September 1st

Sometimes I debate calling my parents to have a serious conversation about whether or not I was shaken as a baby. Then I also have to consider whether it was being held upside down for too long, or having the soft spot on my head touched an unreasonable amount. This multitude of questions keeps me from actually making that call, as it seems it would stretch more than five minutes with them, and I've set that as my personal limit. I don't intend on breaking my promises to myself; who can you respect if not yourself?

Either way, I'm left to deal with the consequences of said actions, which means reciting three paragraphs of the speech-that-must-not-be-named out of order. This also means becoming incapable of intelligible thought when under pressure, read: leaving my phone, socks, underwear, and likely other things that I can't even recall now at Niall's flat. I've learned to keep extra underwear in my purse, along with a contact and emergency makeup. Although, as super prepared as I am, I somehow don't keep a spare phone on me.

It's not as though I make an abundance of calls throughout the day, but I'll bitch about not having my phone with me all the same. I don’t have it in my heart to blame it on Niall, as he’s the reason my legs are still slightly jelly and it’s just kind of tough to be angry with him sometimes. So I stick with being angry at my parents for the soft spot/dropping/upside down thing.

As I take my seat in the rows again, the girl to my right assures me that it went so well! I’m not entirely convinced, but tumbling out is a small smile and a thanks! We’ll find out next week when my grade comes.

Class passes slowly as we all wait out the day’s other presenters. Deciding to take advantage of being phoneless (read: distractionless), I work in the library after my next class until I can retrieve my things from Niall’s.

Of course, half an hour into some serious Latin revision, I being to lose focus. The thought flies that I need to call my cousin. Following is the thought that I need to buy toothpaste. Not shortly behind is that I wanted to drop by the bookstore and look around later this week. Next, the thought comes that these phoneless hours will be wasted if I spend them reminding myself of various tasks that are not at all pressing.

I browse my lecture notes for Latin yet again. Mentally checking off phrases and tenses in the recesses of my mind, I feel glad this isn’t my second language. I read somewhere that once you learn your second language, the following ones are cake walks. Recalling the struggle of French lessons, I decided the idea is vindicated.

Hours later, while driving to Niall’s, I know why my professor kept avidly repeating palma non sine pulvere during syllabus week. No reward without effort.

7872

0716

Third branch on the right.

As the knob is turned, my booted feet push immediately through the threshold, “I can’t believe I left my phone here ea-“

Throat tightening, the words are caught before any more can escape. There are more eyes in the room than I was expecting. Four heads, three more than I had initially assumed, are cocked in my direction. Since there isn’t the faintest clue on what to do rolling around in my subconscious, just standing there seems to be the default. Right palm on the doorknob, mouth open only slightly, right foot planted confidently in front of its match, widened eyes glued to the only familiar ones in the room.

I know them all from Niall’s stories, the tabloids, their movie. The only issue is that they aren’t supposed to know me.

“Well, hello.” Louis intones. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Evaline, you’re here.” Niall burst. His near disbelief is understandable. Two and a half years that these three didn’t know I existed, all demolished in the last fifteen seconds. It almost seems like the end of an era.

In previous discussions on what to do if I ever met the boys, Niall and I had never planned for this scenario. More cunning than this, we thought. Found inflagrante delicto, I was to gush over them and play the ever doting fan. Waving in adoration from the exit as Niall passes the afternoon off as just a one-time thing with a willing woman. My number was never saved in his phone, we both never acknowledged that he had long ago memorized it, so that if seen he could complain about never having anything private from those who made them so famous. He was to then promptly change his number and suggest the boys do the same. You can never be too careful; he was to mimic his mother.

There was no game plan in place for me walking in, knowing how to pass all three security measurements, and seeing his partners. Certainly no strategy to shove under the rug my announcement of having been here previously.

“I don’t have my phone.” I declared, by way of explanation. The time was surely after four, when Niall told me to return. He likely had sent me a text to not come. Now knowing this of course wouldn’t help me, but the ideas of anything else at all to say were so appallingly absent that I couldn’t stand not at least thinking something. Wide-eyed, Niall’s mind seemed to be churning a symphony of gears.

“So you’re a friend of Niall’s? Wha’ luck, us too!” Louis tries again.

Accepting that Niall was getting nowhere fast, I decided it was time to snap into place. Merely thirty seconds had passed in total, but I knew even that mere moment would need serious damage control.  Returning my limbs to a normal position, and with no flicker of a guess as to where the sentence would be ending, I began “Yes, Nia- “

“Eva and I are friends, from Ireland!” Niall’s eyes shone with pride, glazing around the room at the other three boys. The others accepted this for a second, glancing back at their bandmate. The story seemed acceptable, as far as I know they weren’t childhood friends. The only issue that came was that-

“But you aren’t Irish?��� Harry’s eyes were skeptical on mine.

Before the first word could fully pass my lips, Niall jumped in again, “American, spent summers in Ireland.” Harry nodded, still not acquiescing to be fully convinced by a lie that felt so blatantly obvious. “We kept in touch,” Niall added.

Liam smiled fondly, full accepting Niall’s explanation, and introduced the three of them. Invited to sit down and join them, I seal the door and glide over to the seat closest to Niall. Deep discomfort and anxiety guided most actions for the moment. When Liam asked what I went to Ireland for, I was pleased for something I could fabricate without much thought at all. “I was visiting family,” I said, “my aunt and uncle.”

Questions toed the tediously expected path; what I do, where I live, when I came to England, why we had never met before. Working to minimize the web of lies we were weaving to his best friends, I kept as close to the truth as possible. We discuss the classes I take at Imperial. I glaze a sweet sugar coating over the reality of my move from Oregon and thankfully no one seems to notice Niall’s thumb drawing slow, small circles at the small of my back. His reassuring fingers return to the chair’s back when the topic moves on, but the movement seems to have been caught by Harry.

Nothing is said if he did happen to see the comforting action. However, green eyes seem to flicker over to Niall more often than the other pairs. Sensing this as a signal that I need to weasel my way from the apartment, I begin the dance of exiting without my desperate longing to do so being clear.

Fingertips itching to check email, I excuse myself to the bathroom. My phone is snatched on the way, three texts from Niall project the screen’s glow.

4 isn’t going to work, come by after 7?

Eva

boys are here, I’ll drop by yours later

I can’t justify the effort of trying to get my payment and sneaking it into my purse that was currently occupying the space between Niall and Louis. Instead, with tight shoulders pressing back and a gracious smile playing on bitten lips, I return to the room clutching my phone. “It’s been great to meet you guys, but I’ve gotta get going.” The lie is easy, common. My tongue doesn’t fight and stumble under the weight.

Niall stands, deciding to see me out. Grateful for Niall’s choice, I almost brush off Harry’s voice, telling myself he’s just saying goodbye. But he’s not. “Come to dinner this weekend, we have to meet you properly. Can’t find out we don’t know someone of Niall’s and not induct them as we should.” The difference in ‘someone’ of Niall’s and a ‘friend’ of Niall’s is not lost on me as it seems to be the rest of the room. Just as well, green eyes are daring me to say no. Daring me to be told that no won’t be an option here.

Waiting for my response, everyone is silent again. I genuinely cannot think of an acceptable reason for me to tell Harry no, and Niall isn’t giving me any clues on whether he thinks I should join or not.  Short of dodging the question and seeing myself out without providing an answer, my best course of action is compliance.

“Of course,” I say. Oh no! Mountains of coursework! I think.

Pleasantries are exchanged as I work towards the exit. I am told they’ll make sure Niall lets me know more about the dinner, but I’m not concerned. My heavy handed professor can ‘drown’ me in tasks at any moment; the beauty of imagination!

Out in the hall, past the sealed door, safe from prying eyes and ears, Niall and I breathe twin sighs of relief. “So sorry,” we splutter in unison. My forehead drops onto his sturdy shoulder and we sit for a moment in comfortable silence.

“Yours at eight?” He mumbles into my hair. This of course was going to have to be Discussed. What’s next? I wonder if he’s going to suggest I pop in and ‘visit’ with him every few months now, keeping up the ruse with a gentle distance. I choose not to wonder if he’s debating ending the arrangement.  Not only is my time with Niall a big reason as to why I’m not living on the street, he means a lot to me. Even without talking about it expressly, after a while this had become more than a transaction. Mornings of bright light on crisp sheets and late night texts saying he needed me and that I was all he could think about would be sorely missed. The idea of not seeing Niall anymore, employer or not, worked as a firm hand guiding my forehead deeper into his shoulder. The arm that slung itself over me, the vigilant fingers that gripped my shoulder, and the five other fingers that laced into my own were the only reassurance given that the invisible hand was acting upon him too.

Needing to return, Niall saw me off with a small smile and a playful smack on his favorite spot. The silence in place of teasing banter was deafening.

At a quarter past eight, Niall let himself in to my small apartment. The familiar grumbles about the unlocked door were reassuring, and beyond that they were ignored behind the TV’s hum. The bolt was flipped, shoes were toed off, a jacket was dropped at the kitchen table, and the couch’s other half sunk. “The Office?” he mumbles. A warm weight is placed across my shoulders again, a soft support for my neck.

I lean into the planes of his chest, nodding. A moment is spent this way, and it crosses my mind that my visual nonverbal of nodding was received by tactile means, he felt it rather than see. The thought is amusing, yet not enough to make me nod again. The silence holds for a few minutes longer until the episode fades to black.

“How did it go, with the boys?” My head is tilted back just far enough to see his face at it’s angle toward me.

“Believed it, all of ‘em,” A smile rests calmly on his lips. I don’t ask about Harry, trusting that he would know better than I if there was an issue. However, the skeptical eyes on Niall’s hand earlier don’t seem to leave my mind.

It wouldn’t be the end if they all thought we were dating, it just wasn’t preferable. So much time had been spent now without the influence of others, and the situation seemed delicate to begin with. With all on the table, we both knew Niall was paying me. The money stopped being the only reason to answer his texts a long time ago, but without it I’d have been back in Oregon before I could finish my first term at Imperial.

“Yeah? Guess you do seem like the type to keep a pen pal for seven years.”

“Oh yah, call me Mr. Impractical, babe.” Two rows of straight-laced pearly whites sat at my eye level as his eyebrows gave spirited jumps

The next episode begins, and we maintain the quiet to watch. Having already seen every episode of The Office (UK version of course, I binge watched on arrival in London), my thoughts were instead focused on the dinner Harry had proposed. While I felt like not going would be the best course of action, I still had to see what Niall thought. Maybe he’d pass along the fib of homework and then tell me to meet him in his bed when he got home.

I’m reminded of the time Niall had called me over, only to be interrupted by multiple calls from Liam alerting that he was supposed to be shooting an interview in half an hour. With hot lips on my chest and quick fingers on my back I was told in no uncertain terms to still be there when he returned. Never a rule breaker, I made use of the new copy of Flowers for Algernon in my purse. Upon return three hours later, Niall found me still in bed, naked save for the book dressing my face. Had I not been near finishing the novel I might have put it away upon his entrance. Either way, Niall didn’t seem perturbed by the sight.

“How about after that dinner this weekend I meet you in your bed, working on that mountain of homework I’ll be building on Friday?” I didn’t look up at Niall as I said it, working to be the purest picture of nonchalance next to him; nose to the screen, eyes glazed, muscles relaxed.

“I think that sounds great, babe, but I figured you’d accompany me to that dinner.” Solid fingers squeeze my shoulder in earnest and I can tell this is one of those moments, where something in the back of my mind is screaming that this means more than just the words he’s saying. Doing anything to tell me that my decision means more than what I think it does. Now that we weren’t wholly a secret anymore, the voice was bolder than ever. “Don’t see the point in hiding now that they see you’re my old friend.”

The noise in my mind calling for thought tugs my attention away from answering, and Niall continues. “They’re all big fans of you, even from the minute that you all talked. ‘Specially Harry, always excited to meet someone new.” He pauses for a moment, and I still have not come to reply. “Not like we can’t take advantage of all your coursework later, I’m sure I can come up with some review exercises.”

I know what he’s really asking (I think), and I can’t find a reason to deny. Just like I couldn’t find a reason to deny him calling me babe, or him visiting my home, or talking about things that really don’t have anything to do with my job. So I tell him I’ll go to the dinner, and that afterwards I’ll memorize chapter four of my Basics of Entrepreneurship textbook line by line in his bed. He quibbles over some of the plan’s details.

The third episode is ending, and the fading screen seems to be a cue for Niall’s hand to roam south. Noses land just left of each other and lips crash. The routine is familiar, but welcome. His broad chest guides me back, molding against my own as I flatten against the cushions. There’s no push to go farther, and roaming hands stray no farther than weak cotton barriers. Making out like this feels like high school, and I remember lazily kissing Christopher Lock my junior year, when making out seemed like the main event.

Older, more experienced, and cockier, Niall is a much better partner. Even knowing that making out isn’t the last base, it’s just as fun. Fingers and lips and palms and a tongue that knows exactly what to do, exactly what I like and how I like it. I don’t know exactly how much time passes before he pulls away, but when he does we sit in silence and watch the last few scenes running on the TV.

When he stands up and drops the fifties on the kitchen table, I don’t watch. He reminds me to lock the door as he’s closing it.

[sandraguide7-blog]

Not Every Miscarriage Results in Grief, and That’s OK

Seven years ago, I had a miscarriage. Somewhere between eight and 10 weeks into the pregnancy, I started spotting. I knew that light bleeding wasn't always a bad sign during early pregnancy, but I did know that it could signal a miscarriage. I felt nervous. I think I cried a little.

I was out of state for my nephew’s baptism, but when I returned a couple days later, the ultrasound at my doctor’s office confirmed there was no heartbeat. I don’t remember my emotional reaction. I got in a cab and went to work. A half hour after finding out my unborn baby had died, I was editing magazine copy. A few days later, I went for my D&C. I told colleagues I was having “a medical procedure.”

I didn’t feel numb. I just didn’t feel much of anything. The worst part was answering questions from family members asking if I was OK…because I was OK, and this fact in itself made me feel guilty.

I felt weird for not crying more. I felt evil for not being more upset, particularly knowing that other women struggle to get pregnant in the first place. How dare I not be more affected by what had happened to me, if only to honor these other women’s experiences?

I hadn’t really thought much about the whole thing in years, until I got an email from the intimates company Knix, about the launch of their #FacesofFertility campaign to mark Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, today, October 15. As the memory of my miscarriage resurfaced, so did the guilt. When I read or hear about other women’s miscarriage experiences, it’s predominantly stories of emotional wreckage. You rarely hear about this other side of the reaction coin—the indifference I’d felt.

Am I the only one who’s felt this way? Am I an anomaly? Am I actually evil? No. Women’s feelings toward miscarriage are extremely varied, psychologist Rayna Markin, Ph.D., associate professor in counseling at Villanova University, tells SELF. Sometimes the grief is immediate and profound. Other times, it doesn’t surface for weeks, months, or years. Many times, it comes in and out, like a wave.

Although general openness about miscarriage has increased over the past few years, Markin, who specializes in counseling related to infertility and pregnancy loss, believes there remains a certain taboo in talking about it. Because of this, “we really don’t know [how others deal with it] because we have nothing to compare it to,” Markin says. “You wonder, ‘Is this a normal reaction? Is this not something people have?’ In that way it can be really isolating.”

She also explains that a woman’s reaction after a miscarriage can be related to how attached she felt to the baby. “Often times, women can, not purposely, but can distance themselves from the baby when they anticipate a loss, as a way of protecting themselves,” she says. “We see that a lot when women are pregnant after miscarriage, that during [the new] pregnancy, it can be hard for the woman to bond with the baby because she’s worried about losing that baby.”

But why would I not feel attached? I wanted that baby, and I hadn’t had a previous miscarriage. Perhaps it was because I already had one child? My son was 3 years old at the time. I do think I would have been much more distressed had this been my first pregnancy; I’m sure I’d have blamed my body for “malfunctioning” and feared I was incapable of carrying a child to term.

Could this be the reason for my blah-ness, I ask Markin? Do women who have kids typically feel less distraught about a miscarriage? “In my clinical experience, I wouldn’t say one is worse than the other,” she answers. “But when you don’t have children already, many women worry, ‘will I ever be able to have a child’?”

I did go on to get pregnant again, a year after the miscarriage. I had another boy, who is now 5.

In dredging up these feelings about my miscarriage, a new thought, a new version of guilt, emerged: If I had birthed that baby, the one I miscarried, I likely wouldn’t have my youngest son—my precocious, sweet-toothed, dancing little soul.

I can’t imagine what my life would be like without him. I remember telling my husband shortly after his birth that I felt he had really completed our family. Now, even thinking about the baby I miscarried feels like a betrayal to my son.

“There can be this fear that, as a parent, you’re replacing one baby with another,” Markin says. “I think it’s more helpful to think of subsequent children after loss as siblings to that baby that was lost rather than as a replacement. That allows you, as a parent, to love one child while also grieving another.”

But, at the time, I wasn’t grieving the other child, I think to myself, still unclear as to why I felt like I did seven years ago.

The reason starts to unfold as I’m on the phone with David Diamond, Ph.D., associate professor in the clinical Psy.D. program at Alliant International University and co-founder of the Center for Reproductive Psychology in San Diego. He asks if responding with restrained emotions—as I did after the miscarriage—is a “characteristic style” for me. Hardly. I am the queen of strong emotions. This reaction was, in fact, completely uncharacteristic.

He begins to explain the concept of a “lifelong reproductive story,” one that we all have. “You start to think consciously or unconsciously early in life about whether you’ll have kids or not, what your life will be like, and sometimes that’s not at the forefront of your mind, but the seeds get sewn early on,” he says. Each part of your reproductive story gives context to the other parts.

So I tell him about another part of my story, the birth of my first son. As soon as he was born—after 62 hours of labor followed by an induction—10 doctors rushed in. I never got to hold him. He was whisked away, and later, my husband told me our baby’s body was gray, and he thought that he was dead. Our baby stayed in the NICU for two weeks, covered with EEG electrodes to monitor the seizures he was having. “Why are you crying? He’s very, very handsome,” the technician said to me as I stood over his NICU bassinet, tears rolling down my cheeks.

Despite an uncomplicated pregnancy, my baby had had an in utero stroke, which they could pinpoint only to the four days before birth or during birth. He had bilateral brain damage, they said. He might have cerebral palsy, they said. He might never walk, they said. They didn’t really know what would happen—we’d just have to wait and see.

I didn’t even know babies could have strokes, but mine did. (According to the Children’s Hemiplegia and Stroke Association, 1 in 2,800 babies have what’s called a “perinatal stroke.”) I left the hospital with an empty car seat.

I swung into a serious postpartum depression. For the first four days, I lay on the couch, nauseous, unable to get up and go visit him in the NICU. People sent food, flowers, kind notes, and Dr. Pepper (which I drank by the vat-load then). For the next three years, we visited a neurologist every few months, who assessed our son’s development. “He’s lifting his head when he’s supposed to,” I’d say. “Does that mean everything is going to be ok?” “Now he’s walking—that proves something, right?” The answer was always the same: It’s a good sign, but we wouldn’t really know until the next visit. When we stopped seeing the neurologist, he told us, “I’d be surprised if there are no effects as a result of his birth experience.”

That baby is now 9 years old. He has pure blue eyes, a sprinkling of freckles, and the sweetest demeanor—literally never a bad word for anyone. You would never know what he went through by looking at him or talking to him. He’s an orange belt in karate who can also whoop your ass at Mario Kart and recite every evolution that Pokemons go through, with a sophisticated sense of humor and a fierce defense of his little brother. He does have some learning delays, so he attends a special ed class for reading and math, works with a tutor, and receives OT services at school. Occasionally he’ll get a physical tick, where he repeatedly moves his arm or his head in one direction, but they typically disappear within a month.

Doctors who see him for routine medical appointments, when told of his birth history, call him a miracle. I do believe he is a miracle. And I feared, in those first couple years after his birth, that if I got pregnant again, the same thing would happen…only this time we wouldn’t get another miracle.

I never connected what happened to my first son with my miscarriage response, but Diamond, co-author of Unsung Lullabies: Understanding and Coping With Infertility, sees the link immediately. “Nobody thinks they’re going to have a child with an in utero stroke,” he explains. “You perhaps approach the next pregnancy with that experience, that bad things can happen.”

Even though our son is thriving now, “still, it’s not the way you thought your child-bearing life was going to turn out. So there’s the loss of that sense of how you think it’s supposed to be. Having been through something like that, you might understandably want to have your emotions somewhat in check as you go through this next thing,” Diamond continues. “If you went through a lot when that was going on—it must have been horrible at the time—there’s accumulated trauma.” (My eyes well up.) “That’s one part of your reproductive story. When we look at your whole story, that first part is what we call a reproductive trauma.”

So the guilt I felt…and still feel—first, for not reacting passionately to the miscarriage, then in thinking about what the miscarriage meant in relation to my youngest son—is actually not that surprising of a reaction.

“Things mean different things to different people. And the meaning of things changes after a while,” Diamond says. “Later you have these other feelings, ‘well, if I had had that child, I wouldn’t have this child.’ It’s helpful to let people know that guilt and shame and other reactions are not abnormal in any way.”

There I have it…clarity. It feels strange.

And it’s sent me into an emotional tailspin. My husband and I talk about whether it’s OK to share this story about our first son so publicly—will other kids use it one day to taunt him? But we come to the conclusion that it’s nothing to be ashamed about, and that what it actually shows is his incredible ability to keep trying even when things are tougher for him; that the elasticity of the human brain is real; that doctors don’t always know how things will turn out; and that, for other parents who might be dealing with something similar, there is always hope. As a former boss wrote to me right after my first son’s birth, the most important thing for your child is that he’s happy, which both of our sons are.

If you've had a miscarriage or fertility issues—whether you want to speak about it or not—you should know that you are not alone. Knix's campaign aims to help end the stigma. From now through the end of October, the company will donate $1 to Resolve.org in the US and FertilityMatters.ca in Canada for every Instagram post tagged #FacesofFertility. The company has also partnered with Inkbox on two temporary tattoos, for sale on knix.com, with 100 percent of the proceeds going to the above charities. One—created by illustrator Mary Purdie, who herself has experienced five miscarriages—shows a plant growing from a cloud with a raindrop, which Purdie says depicts both her grief and sadness but also her strength and personal growth.

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Source: https://www.self.com/story/grief-and-miscarriage-medium-well