I feel strange today. I feel strange and angry and normal and sad and strange.
My blog is confusing me too. I'm one part enjoying it and one part mystified by it. Who am I talking to? Am I doing it for myself? Am I doing it for others? Am I try to help someone? Am I trying to help myself?
Every evening I look at the stats page. It tells me how many people have logged on, which countries they come from, which posts have been most read. It is interesting. I like the feedback. But I'm not sure if I like it because I'm proud of myself, or because in a sense, it makes me feel less lonely?
Sometimes, I want to pick up my blog and throw it against the wall. I hate that it's here. That I have this life where I write such sad stories. On better days, I like the space if gives me, the way it helps crystallise my thoughts and lets others get close and understand.
Tomorrow we are going skiing. The blue sky is calling. I need the space on the mountains and the wind in my ears. And I need proper, uninterrupted time with Toby - time on the chairlifts to cuddle up, talks over dinner, laughs in the boot room, privacy.
I don't feel the uneasiness about leaving London like I did in December when we went to the Lakes. Bear has found his place and he'll be with us too. Not in some sick, deluded sad Mummy kind of way, but just there, in our hearts, on the slopes, near the snow. Because it snowed that night, when Bear was born.
It is scary facing up to my new life without the baby that was meant at its centre. I waited so patiently for him to arrive and now time seems huge and daunting. Hopefully, the skiing will take some of this pressure away.