Nine months. It’s been nine whole months and I still struggle to bring myself to write out Winnie’s birth story, from start to finish.
I have at least half a dozen drafts of her story.
I’ve written it in positive light, in negative light, in every other kind of light and shadow it can be seen in seems.
Some drafts are a few sentences, others a few paragraphs, but they all have one thing in common: none of them have an ending yet.
The beginning is fine. More than fine really. The end is the part I have a problem with. Some days, anyway.
Some days I am fine with how the story ended, proud even with what I went through to bring Winnie here safely.
Other days, I’m angry about it. Upset because her birth did not go the way I had intended it to.
Telling your story is special because you can tell it exactly the way you feel it. How can you write about an event when your feelings regarding it are so wishy-washy?
If I write one way, I feel like a liar. If a write another way, I feel like a liar. If there is a middle ground I haven’t found it yet.
I don’t want to complain, I really don’t. But I would feel like I was being misleading if I pretended I was 100% okay with how everything happened. Because I’m not.
One day I’ll write it. Completely. Soon I hope.
But for now I’ll just keep trying. I’ll keep trying to come to terms with my daughter’s birth story. I’ll keep reminding myself that no matter my feelings about it, it was worth it because it brought her to us.