“I’m Angry” & How I Healed

Copyright Joanna Macdonald. This beautiful image is created by a beautiful woman of God with oil paints and a lot of time. Hopefully one day she’ll get the amount of encouragement and praise she deserves for this, but I thought I’d share it to spread her name and work a little further.

It is now over a year since I had my second miscarriage, lost the child that I have since come to call Kari. Shortly after I went through a point of feeling incredibly angry, and although it was done in a blog post form, it was never published. It’s only now that I feel I can be honest about that part of my life because it is only so much time later that I feel like I’m healing. I welcome you to read through, and comment if you would like to share alongside me, but know that I am OK. No matter what has happened I am still here and God has been good. This is a small part of my journey and below I will also share about how God has healed me.

Over the past few days I have got generally angry. I’m angry for what has happened. I’m angry at my own flipping body for apparently not doing the job that I always assumed it would do. I’m angry at the judgements that tell me however passively that Bear and I shouldn’t have even been trying. I’m angry at the idea thrown at me that it was a mistake, and a blessing that I lost a second child.

I’m PISSED that even in my own mind I can’t grieve properly for my two children because if one had been born, the other wouldn’t have, so I’m stuck inbetween. I’m angry that everything scares me. I’m angry that I’ve been told how to grieve by people who have never gone through this. I’m angry that it’s been said I’m wallowing when actually the only thing that is keeping me moving is myself pushing into new projects and opportunities.

I’m angry that I’m angry. I’m angry that I feel trapped in situations. I’m angry that I constantly feel I’m disappointing others by looking after myself. I’m angry that I’m sitting procrastinating, feeling useless, but that I’m scared to do anything else.

I’m angry at sex, because sex caused this. I’m angry at God for making me feel things I desperately don’t want to feel. I’m angry at beautiful, faithful, true things because they just pinpoint how much what I wanted isn’t true, ended in a way I can’t quite see as beautiful, and despite faith I’m hurting, again, and again, and again.

I’m angry at myself when I let this out because I might be seen as dramatic, emotional or attention-seeking. I’m angry at myself for smiling and pretending everything is OK when inside it feels like my tears are falling into a dark hole that keeps getting bigger.

I’m angry at myself for not being as grateful for what I’ve got as I know I should be. I’m angry for dreaming because dreaming hurts. I’m angry for trying to control my life and I’m angry that control isn’t in my hands. I’m angry at money and the stresses it brings. I’m angry that I was told not to worry too much about all that pregnancy stuff, and I’m angry that in relaxing I might have done something wrong. I’m angry at even thinking that because I know enough medicine to know it’s silly.

I’m angry when I think about going to church, because church contains families, and children, and those children exist and mine don’t. I’m angry at people not getting the idea I need a break and I’m struggling and not to push. I’m angry that I find simple things difficult. I’m angry that my mind doesn’t seem to be working, that I forget simple things, miscalculate, misread, misspeak.

I’m angry that this makes me doubt everything and that every decision however big or small is terrifying. I’m angry that I’m affecting my husband and sometimes not in a good way. I’m angry that everything is tainted by this. I’m angry that every argument comes back to the trauma and exhaustion of it all. I’m angry that we’re trying to work hard despite the time off being something we couldn’t avoid. I’m angry that we’re trying to do everything and everything seems to make us feel worse. I’m angry that the only thing that is keeping me somewhat sane isn’t really respected by a number of people around me.

I was angry for a long time. I would cry in worship songs because I couldn’t quite grasp what I had felt in my faith before. I would find conversations about children difficult. I even denied my potential to have children, not because I physically couldn’t, but because I didn’t think I could cope with the pain of another miscarriage. I blocked life out and decided at times to never have children. By blocking out this love, this hope, I wouldn’t suffer the disappointment.

God snapped me out of it painfully, by me getting pregnant quite quickly after my second miscarriage, and when I had planned a break from trying, a break from even thinking about it. It was not the way I wanted to get pregnant and I felt guilty for feeling angry about it as well. I had never wanted to feel negativity towards a pregnancy, or a child, ever.

I hated the process of pregnancy and I hated the fear that came with it. But piece by piece things got better, the further along we got the less scared I got. I learnt to trust the body God gave me a little more, but ultimately God needed to break me in again and the harsh trauma of the delivery was the last straw. I could not do it myself, I had to trust in the doctors and in God for my safety and that of my child.

And then she was there. The storm was over and the sun streamed in through the window as I met my daughter. She brought healing with her, but this is not about how a baby replaced my previous lost child, she didn’t. Instead she was used to remind me of how good things sometimes come through pain, how joy is not the same as happiness, and life is not easy but that’s OK.

The image that has been lodged in my mind since I lost Kari was of blood, water, darkness and forcing myself to let go (literally) of a tiny body in my hands. It’s hard to grieve when it haunts every memory and connected thought. Slowly a new image appeared with the sunshine: of light, of love, of joy, and a promise of God’s protection. Kari was a life, a life I was carrying and was sadly not meant to come into the world. Yet, the miracle of that life still stands, it can still be joyful even if it hurts.

It is only through this new joy that I can let go of the anger and be healed. I can praise my Lord with my daughter in my arms and be free of it all. Instead I have two beautiful memories of two little lives I was blessed with temporarily, and one gorgeous baby girl whose name means “living”. I didn’t realise the significance until now that despite the pain I too am living, and God wants me to have life in all its fullness.

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