Time heals all wounds. Talk about bullshit! 

Cliches. The world is full of them. There’s plenty of fish in the sea. All’s well that ends well. Every cloud has a silver lining. And my personal favourite; time heals all wounds. Just in case you missed it, that was my subtle attempt at sarcasm. 

I hate cliches. More than I hate moths and butterflies and trust me, there’s not much I hate more than moths and butterflies. And this particular one is the worst. 

Time does not heal all wounds. Perhaps it heals some. But that is not a premise to tell people that all it takes is time and you’ll be fine. Because I can safely say, I am not fine. I’m not sure I ever will be. 

I cope, of course I do. People need me to. But my heart still aches. It still hurts in unbelievable ways that no one will ever understand. And according to this wonderful cliche, my wound should be healing. I mean in 4 weeks and 3 days, a whole year will have passed since the worst day of my life. So surely I should be on my way to healing? 

Well fuck the world and its cliches. Because there is no way I am healing. I’ve adjusted to a new way of living. A way of living that means being in constant pain but dealing with it, accepting it and understanding it. Knowing this is how it will always be. Something like this changes you, it engulfs your soul and makes it it’s own. You are forever scarred by it and no amount of time changes that. 

I’m always aware of it. Even recently when I have had some amazing days that have made me forget about things I’m worrying about, I still never forget that day or the week leading up to it. It’s there, in my heart, in my mind, in my very being. I feel I’m sounding rather melodramatic but it’s all true. It’s impossible not to think about, to get sad about, to wish it could have been different. And it’s definitely not getting easier. 

How can it? When there’s constant reminders. New pregnancy announcements. New babies. 7 month old babies, the age Oliver would be were he born on his due date. 1 year olds, the age Oliver would be were he not stillborn. Two brothers playing, how my boys should be now. The anniversary just around the corner. The baby clothes I’ve packed to move house that he never got to wear. The longing I feel inside me to be pregnant again. The fear of ever having another baby. So many reminders, so of course it’s impossible to heal. 

Sometimes I wish it had gotten easier and then I feel guilty because I don’t want to forget him and it feels like remembering him and feeling this pain go hand in hand so I shouldn’t wish the pain away. But sometimes it’s unbearable. The guilt, the heartache, the loneliness. 

I know some days are easier than others but that does not mean I will heal. This void will never be filled. It’s part of me. It always will be so if I have to hear one more shitty cliche I may just scream.

I’m okay with it not getting easier. I’m okay with not healing.                   I’m okay with time not helping.    

I’m surviving and that’s okay.          

Until the very end…


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