Every household should have one. And it should be hung right on the door exiting the house, so as not to miss it while life whirls past. There should be a complaint box because no one ever lets me complain about anything out loud...ever.
Apparently, it's forbidden once you have a baby. Sounds odd, considering having a baby is tough work, consisting of giving selflessly of yourself 24/7 for...well...EVER. There's no break to be had until you are resting comfortably on your satin pillow seven feet under ground. You will always be a parent, always be worried, always be afraid of losing what you love most in the world. For a OCD like myself, that's a recipe for a lot of sleepless nights.
I've been complaining a lot lately, almost indignant about the sore nipples, sagging skin, sleep deprivation, lack of communication with my spouse, my friends, or any adult, for that matter. I complain for the greater good, for if I didn't vent my parental angst, I would simply explode like the ticking time bomb I have become. Once that little person is born from you, you are born into a new person...one that is all at once in love, nurturing, motherly, compassionate, caring, exhausted, lonely, depressed, binge eating, cranky, bitchy, resentful and spiteful of the childless people of the world who get to sleep in and eat at fancy restaurants at 8:00 at night. Lucky bastards.
Confusing? You bet. Having children is the best thing I have ever experienced in my life, and will no doubt continue to reward me throughout my life. However, it seems that instantaneous gratitude comes with conditions.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Feeling Like a Million Bleahs
The sinking feeling of depression has set in yet again, as I anticipated it would. I waited for it like I was waiting for a late bus. No matter how much I hoped, I just knew in my gut there was no way to avoid post-partum depression.
I'm isolated with a baby, a toddler, and a husband who is preoccupied with the excitement/exhaustion of having a new addition to our already energetic family. My friends have come and gone in limited quantity, and none are staying around this time...the second baby isn't the same. People just don't think it's that big a deal, and it's definitely not the new experience that always had my heart racing with my first. But without company, it has become lonely. I'm looking around for me time and coming up woefully short.
There are some distinct differences with the depression this time around. It's far less relentless, and it strikes at unpredictable times of the day and for no reason at all. It's also less consistent than with my first round. Instead of being a sob-fest of guilt and self-pity, it has manifested itself in a way that is indescribably horrible.
You see, I have these images of my kids being hurt. My kids, my family, my life...being killed by various, nameless ghouls. And not just killed, but murdered in ways I do not care to rethink. It's pretty horrific, and always so unforgivingly graphic, almost cinematic in its clarity. Sometimes I have to close my eyes tight and shake my head violently to get it out of my mind. And sometimes, that just doesn't work.
When I mentioned it to my lactation nurse, she said that it was best if I stop watching the news, crime shows, reality crime shows, anything to do with kids being hurt, people being hurt, the world being in turmoil.
So in other words, that excludes all television, radio, print newspapers and/or magazines. I might as well seal myself up in a bubble and send myself to the North Pole.
I realize that the images and daynightmares are all a part of my psyche trying to process the stress of having a newborn and a toddler and no down time at all. There's also the stress of no paycheck for over a year, which seems to magnify when I pay the bills and realize we have to dip into our savings to pay Mastercard.
I spoke to my obgyn about it at my last visit. As she was inspecting the c-section incision (which is healing nicely, thank you) I asked her if she thought I needed to see a therapist. Surprisingly, she said no. "I think that's normal." She said without a hint of concern in her voice. "I had a friend who had exactly the same thing happen."
The question that sits on my chest, making it hard to breathe is: Is it better to be crying into my breast pump all day long for months? Or to live in fear that something will take away everything I have? The saying goes, "The more you have, the more you have to lose."
I guess I have taken that a little too much to heart.
I'm isolated with a baby, a toddler, and a husband who is preoccupied with the excitement/exhaustion of having a new addition to our already energetic family. My friends have come and gone in limited quantity, and none are staying around this time...the second baby isn't the same. People just don't think it's that big a deal, and it's definitely not the new experience that always had my heart racing with my first. But without company, it has become lonely. I'm looking around for me time and coming up woefully short.
There are some distinct differences with the depression this time around. It's far less relentless, and it strikes at unpredictable times of the day and for no reason at all. It's also less consistent than with my first round. Instead of being a sob-fest of guilt and self-pity, it has manifested itself in a way that is indescribably horrible.
You see, I have these images of my kids being hurt. My kids, my family, my life...being killed by various, nameless ghouls. And not just killed, but murdered in ways I do not care to rethink. It's pretty horrific, and always so unforgivingly graphic, almost cinematic in its clarity. Sometimes I have to close my eyes tight and shake my head violently to get it out of my mind. And sometimes, that just doesn't work.
When I mentioned it to my lactation nurse, she said that it was best if I stop watching the news, crime shows, reality crime shows, anything to do with kids being hurt, people being hurt, the world being in turmoil.
So in other words, that excludes all television, radio, print newspapers and/or magazines. I might as well seal myself up in a bubble and send myself to the North Pole.
I realize that the images and daynightmares are all a part of my psyche trying to process the stress of having a newborn and a toddler and no down time at all. There's also the stress of no paycheck for over a year, which seems to magnify when I pay the bills and realize we have to dip into our savings to pay Mastercard.
I spoke to my obgyn about it at my last visit. As she was inspecting the c-section incision (which is healing nicely, thank you) I asked her if she thought I needed to see a therapist. Surprisingly, she said no. "I think that's normal." She said without a hint of concern in her voice. "I had a friend who had exactly the same thing happen."
The question that sits on my chest, making it hard to breathe is: Is it better to be crying into my breast pump all day long for months? Or to live in fear that something will take away everything I have? The saying goes, "The more you have, the more you have to lose."
I guess I have taken that a little too much to heart.
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