Day 4: A song that makes you sad

Do I really just have to pick one I have a few? I’m going to go above and beyond with this challenge and give you a few songs.

I loved a boy in high school. And by loved I mean I used and abused him. Then one day it was all over. Looking back which you should never do. I see how awful I was. He was sweet and sensitive. I pretty much chewed him up and spit him out. But that is what you do when you are young, headstrong, and essentially broken. One night we sat in his car, he actually wouldn’t let me out. He yelled at me and cried. He wrote me this five-page letter, front and back. It was the first time I became aware that my actions could truly hurt someone. I wounded someone and this song played on the stereo. It was my own personal soundtrack that night. When ever I hear it I’m reminded of that moment. And it makes me sad.

A good portion of my twenties was spent in a dysfunctional relationship. One that I generally do not speak of. Merely because it was easier to forget about it rather than hold onto any resentment or anger. I played my role. I made my bed. I laid in it. I discovered this song one day. It was almost empowering. How could someone sum up all my feelings in 3 minutes and 35 seconds. When I listen to it now I feel a mix of anger and sadness. Disappointment in myself for weakness. Disappointment for believing I was not good enough, that I did not deserve more. That I stayed. I could write a book. But instead I will keep that chapter closed.

Which brings me to this life, the now. If you read my blog you know that I had miscarriage after miscarriage. That we had resigned ourselves to not having any children together. My first miscarriage occurred on October 26th, 2008. It was devastating. Our relationship was still new and fragile. This picture was taken that day.We would suffer through another miscarriage in December of the same year. Followed by the one that finally dashed all of our hopes in July of 2009. It was our 11 week check up. I laid down on the table for a sonogram. Matt grinned at me. We took Morgan she was giddy with anticipation. The goo on my belly was cold. Then the tech excused herself. I felt dread build up inside me. The doctor looked at the screen. “I’m sorry there is no heartbeat, your baby stopped developing.” I can still see the look on Matt’s face. That moment almost broke us.
The car ride home this song played. It became the one thing I identified with our loss. It took over a year before I could listen to it with out crying. The twins were our remedy, our cure. And now I can listen to this song without tears.