Keys. Car tag sticker and registration. "A-nay's key". My bank login and password. My coupon organizer. My memory. All the things I've lost recently. My memory was, at one point, one of my prized possessions. And my biggest nemesis. Now.... I fear I've lost it and it's never coming back. Yet I remember all the things I don't want to remember and I forget anything of importance (I feel like Paul "I do the things I don't want to do and don't do the things I do want to do, paraphrased version, of course). Is this sleep deprivation or post partum depression? I suppose, more than anything, I'm chronicling my battle with PPD. My own personal hell. That seems to have overshadowed my life and is invading my marriage..
It's hard to explain to your husband that you understand you are having irrational thoughts (like, maybe I should run off the bridge, he'd be better off without me), you understand that *this* isn't your reality, but somehow, the grip of gloom has stolen your vision. It's stolen my life. My mind.. I'm sick of it. I can't remember the last time I woke up happy. The last time I felt *good*. The last time I was hopeful. The last time I didn't just want to explode-- either with anger or in an uncontrollabe, inconsolable sob. I have no drive to do anything. I have the sex drive of a dead earthworm. I have the patience of an irritated wolverine. I'm impossible to make happy because I've forgotten what happy IS. Except rage and sadness I'm almost emotionless; and yet, truly I have a soft and caring heart; even if it seems to have stopped beating occasionally. I have unrealistic expectations of myself and crumble to pieces as I watch myself fail. I'm a trainwreck. I am openly admitting that I am drowning in my own depression.
I am under-sleeped and overwhelmed. I am insecure about everything from my extra 20 lbs from 2 kids to the lack of organization in my closet. I have lost every ounce of confidence I've ever had in myself. I don't feel like I'm a good mother because I'm constantly stressed out and overwhelmed by the demands of my 2 1/2 yr old and my 8 month old. I haven't been able to run more than 3 miles in months because Kipton won't let me stay in in the gym for more than 30 minutes. I used to do 3 before I went to school and then 3-5 after school. I swear my brain is turning to mush, not from mad cow disease, but from mad white woman disease. I'm this gurgling volcano, churning away and waiting to explode. At one point, this volcano flowed with enthusiasm, with hope, with joy, with knowledge. Now I'm this miserable, irritable, constantly drained, interminably impossible woman. *tears* And I miss the former me.
I miss my quick wit. I miss my strong athletic mini skirt legs. I miss my laughter. I miss my confidence. I miss my passion for chiropractic. I miss my drive for improving. I miss my ass. I miss my ability to get things accomplished. I miss my clean car. I miss feeling accomplished. I miss feeling desirable. I miss wearing heels. I miss people.
I'm singlehandedly ruining my marriage. I can't blame everything on PPD, although I'd like to. I know that I chose my own actions. And I wonder if I am somehow creating my misery by being doggedly determined to be a stay at home mom? Is this really my calling? Do I have the skill set to raise 2 boys (mostly) alone? Umm let me answer that: HEEELLLLL NO. Do I WANT to? Do I admire moms who have kids all day AND they still *love* being with them? Do I *wish* I doted upon and lavished upon and revolved endlessly around my boys? Yes. Do I feel like an utter failure at motherhood because I get frustrated with them? Do I feel like a failure because sometimes I think I could really throw them into the wall? Do I think that makes me a failure as a mom? Umm, let me answer that. YES. *tears* And I hate that about me.
I somehow feel like because I'm programmed to need social interaction on a very regular basis, because I (at least at some point) wanted a professional life, and because I *HATE* all things associated with the dishwasher that I'm a disgrace to motherhood. I feel like I'm a disgrace to motherhood because I lose my temper. Because I can't keep up with the laundry AND the boys. Because my youngest won't sleep more than 2 hours a time. Because my oldest only follows directions from his daddy. Because my ass has dimples in it. Because my boobs, though considerably larger, sag considerably more. Because I have visions of shaking my baby to get him to sleep while I rock and cry *with* him. Because every month I don't work, my student loans rack up hundreds of dollars of interest. I don't know how THAT works into making me feel like a failure as a mom, but it does. It's another hand tightening the noose, because if I was *really* supposed to be a mother, I never would've gone to chiropractic school and buried myself in student loan debt. Do you see how ridiculous this is? I do. And that's what makes it even worse. *I GET how stupid this is*. And yet, I can't seem to shrug it. And just for the record-- my mind IS clear enough to know that medication is NOT the answer. It's something deeper.... something much more difficult that nuerochemistry.
There are scars. There are rampant insecurities. There are memories that haunt. There are fears that paralyze. There is anger that devours. There is love that whispers. And perhaps, it is the latter that is scariest of all; it is love that makes it painful. It is love that makes it confusing. It is love that makes me miss who I was and despise who I've become. And I am confident, it is love that will save me.
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