Söbriety • Mötley Crüe •

109. The Final Straw

WARNINGS: (PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING) Depictions of Stillbirth, the Depression that Results, and Suicidal Thoughts.

"If you need a place to hang your head, a shoulder's better than a knot.
You'd be a better memory alive rather than not."

-Bad Omens;
Careful What You Wish For

One Month Later

Ryan's POV

I never realized that two measly, grossly small words could do so much damage.

Two words shattered my heart into a million tiny little pieces to tumble down my body and leave a gaping, soul-sucking hole where it once lived.

Two words ripped out my brain and whirred it through the sharp blades of a blender before pouring it back into my skull, leaving everything a dripping mess of earth-shattering depression.

Two words took my ability to form a coherent sentence, piece together a complete thought, look my daughter in the eye, tell my husband that I love him.

Fuck, I can't even get out of bed anymore.

And I can't seem to do a goddamn thing about it.

I don't want to do anything about it.

Who knew that your entire will to live could be destroyed by two words, seven letters, and three syllables?

I'm sorry.

Those two words stole everything from me.

And it's so fucking unnatural because most of the time I'm sorry doesn't mean shit.

It's a half-hearted, mechanically spat phrase when you do something stupid like side-swipe the car that parked too close to you at the grocery store or cheat on your wife.

It's two words to pacify whoever you've done "wrong" until the next time you go and do the same shit without any real remorse.

I've said I'm sorry to so many people for so many different things over the span of my life, and I can honestly say that I only meant it about fifteen-percent of the time.

But those words mean something when they roll off the tongue of a doctor who's trying to find your unborn baby's heartbeat.

I'm sorry.

They fucking mean something when that same doctor spits them out repeatedly as if he's asking for forgiveness from God while he's sitting in between your legs, waiting for you to deliver a lifeless child.

"I'm so sorry."

They become the most heartfelt words known in the whole fucking English language as you hold that lifeless child in your arms and try to explain to their corpse why you weren't good enough of a mother to do the most basic fucking task you're entrusted to do; keep them alive.

"I'm so fucking sorry."

And then they become repetitive, spoken out of awkwardness, because nobody knows what to say that won't cause any more unnecessary damage.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

I don't think I'll ever say I'm sorry for anything ever again. Now that I know the weight that those words can hold, they're too big to use for any petty wrongdoing.

They're reserved only for great injustices; like coming home with labor pain, but no baby to show for it or losing the love of your life.

Placental Abruption