Hanging On Until Tomorrow

It’s 74 outside and I sit here bundled up on the couch with a blanket up to my neck, un-showered, and in no hurry to quench my thirst, or feed my growling stomach. My eyes can’t focus on one thing, my brain is moving like a locomotive, with an out of control engine, and every sound around me has me on edge.

If I could see the hypothetical thread I am hanging on by, would I choose to cut it, or would I attempt to make it stronger, as to hold me up longer? Sometimes giving up is easier than pushing through the same shit day after day; FUCK, who am I kidding, I’ve, “given up,” in the past, and where did it land me, the hospital……but damn it, the hospital was like an escape from hell, and I guess an escape is what I am aiming for right now.

Let me tell you something, it’s hard as fuck to fight through this bipolar shit, postpartum, AND deal with additional issues other than my own. Just when I think I am having a good day, some news bombards me, and ruins my chances of having a decent day. If it isn’t news that my mother has lung cancer, it’s a call that she fell again, or that something else fucked up has happened in her life.

You might think there’s a quick fix for this shit, but there isn’t! There isn’t a magic fucking pill that makes me feel better, because NOTHING changes. The pill might stabilize some depressed moods, but it doesn’t make me normal, and OH DEAR GOD HOW I WISH I WAS NORMAL!!!

What is normal? Normal is waking up without thoughts of dying, going throughout the day without anxiety about stupid shit, not worrying about every fucking thing that doesn’t even matter, and being able to properly cope with the massive amounts of family bullshit daily.

God, I hate this; I need a vacation from my own life. Sometimes the urge to die is so strong, but then the baby cries, and it’s like, “ok, hold off for now.” How sick is that crap!? How horrible is it that the one reason why I haven’t attempted to kill myself in the past few months, is because of the baby? Go ahead, judge me for that statement, but it’s the absolute truth. Sometimes I feel like my husband would be better off without me, so leaving him doesn’t seem as bad, but there is something about the way my daughter looks at me, and smiles when I talk to her, that makes me rethink living…..plus, I’ve seen my husband in action, the baby wouldn’t survive a week alone with daddy! Ha, even in the midst of feeling like shit, I find a way to make a joke, go me!!

All I Wanted Was a Shower

The house is quiet, and I am once again alone with my thoughts. I should be snuggled in bed, listening to the sound of my 2 month old’s little breaths, but I am sitting alone, in the dark, in my living room, wide awake, and wondering when my spouse will take the time to ask me how my day was, or stop for two seconds to realize that just because he worked all day outside the house, doesn’t mean his work ends at 5pm. It would be nice to feel like a team, but instead, I am captain, co-captain, and engineer of this ship, and it’s headed for an iceberg.

I can’t help but get emotional as I type this. I feel so lonely, even though I interact with others all day. I FaceTime my family, text my friends, and play with my beautiful daughter for hours, but I feel like I am walking this path alone, and it sucks.

My husband complains constantly about being tired, and while I understand he works a demanding job, and he genuinely is tired, he never stops to think that when I ask him to help me with something, I am running on minimal hours of sleep, and I don’t want to hear, “I’m exhausted.” I ask him to do so little, and yet tonight he can’t find an ounce of energy to do any of the things he’s been asked to do, in fact, he fell asleep, and left me alone to do everything again, which is beyond frustrating.

All I wanted was a shower!

Seriously….I told my husband when he came home that I really needed to get a shower, and would like for him to take the baby for a while, so I could freshen up, and feel like a decent human being for a change, so why, at midnight, am I just getting out of the shower!?…..I’ll tell you why…..because my needs come last!

I feel like I am a single mother half the time. It’s hard enough dealing with a fucked up brain, and forcing myself to get through the days on depression energy, but then to feel like I am doing things alone……it’s a slap in the face. I am the one who wakes up during the night, I am the one who is feeding, medicating, and doing all things baby related, (which is fine), and I am the one cooking the meals, doing the laundry, and making sure the bills are paid. I am not complaining about these things, I am just saying it would just be nice to be acknowledged for the job I do without complaining.

This isn’t a bash your husband post. I love my husband, and I know he loves me. It would just be nice to feel that love a little more. It would be nice to be hugged, thanked, and asked, “how can I help you?” It would be nice to have him offer his time a little more. It would be nice to feel appreciated, instead of feeling like a bitch for having an attitude when my slightest request gets forgotten, and I end up doing it myself. It would be nice to get a shower after dinner, rather than waiting until midnight, when everyone is asleep. It would be nice to have some help. It would be nice to be able to hand the baby to daddy, while mommy takes a much needed breather, but that rarely happens, and it’s overwhelmingly stressful for me.

I end this blog post with heavy eyes, restless legs, a crying baby, a snoring husband, and a shred of hope that things will get better soon.

Postpartum

As I sit on my couch, juggling a laptop on my legs, Criminal Minds on for background noise, a newborn snoring in an awkward position on my chest, and a overfilled bladder, I can’t help but think to myself, “I don’t know if I can do this!” 

My hair isn’t brushed, and hasn’t been washed in a few days, mostly because once I step in the tub, and wash the necessary smelly bits and pieces, I’m either too damn tired to wash my hair, or the baby starts screaming bloody murder, and I need to jump out to deal with a starving baby vulture. The tiny human knows mommy will come to the rescue, when daddy starts to panic because he can’t figure out what’s wrong, and small baby cries have turned into blood curdling screams, a red face, and breath holding.

Making bottles has turned into an agitating process, not so much during the day, but most definitely throughout the night. No one tells you how much more difficult it is when your child goes from being content with two ounces, to now demanding three at every feeding. One would think an extra ounce wouldn’t be challenging, but when formula only has directions for even ounces, and some genius in the powdered formula lab assumed babies like to count by two’s, mixing bottles like a chemist at 3 am is exhausting, and just takes away from that precious sleep I strive for.

There’s something about the way my body looks now that repulses me. I had stretch marks prior to pregnancy, so it’s not that at all, I couldn’t care less about the battle scars of life….BUT….the flubber around my abdomen, extra jiggle on hips/legs, and the way everything just hangs down like a depressed inner tube being sent to the recycle factory, has my self-esteem waining slightly. It also doesn’t help that my scalp is flaky from the hormonal oil slick that has made its home on my head, and my face is so dry that it looks like the texture of a cats tongue.

I hate everything about the way my brain is making me feel. The crying for no reason, that lasted a week, and I was glad to see it go, but to be honest, I would rather cry than feel the way I do now! It’s so weird staring into the eyes of your perfect little miracle girl, thinking how happy you are that she is here, and at the very same time feeling so depressed. It takes everything I have to get out of bed, and mostly because I can’t crawl under the covers, die to the world, and be a good mother at the same time.

I’m healing from a second degree tear, wearing depends, taking Colace like candy, constantly leaking from the baby feeders, feeding a newborn every two-two and a half hours, cooking, cleaning, taking care of poopy blow-outs, filling syringes with baby Simethicone…and in between…trying to grab something remotely edible, before the hunger gremlins strike the baby like she hasn’t eaten in years…MEANWHILE…the hubs complains he’s been “extra tired today, and needs more sleep.” It takes all I have not to grab a weapon, (not for murder, just for a sincere beating about the head and shoulders), when I hear him complaining about things I consider minute. He is very helpful, and I know it’s just my current mood that makes me want to slap him with a board, but it doesn’t help when I am exhausted from the day, and still have to manage to repeat the entire process throughout the night, without a complaint, yet he is, “exhausted!?!?!”

The dog next door is barking again. The landlords won’t do shit about the fact that it never shuts the fuck up, but they have no idea that I am dealing with extreme anxiety, and I am two seconds from throwing a rock through the neighbors window, and strangling the fuck out of that damn dog, with my bare hands!

I feel so alone.

I feel trapped in my home.

I feel stressed, and overwhelmed, but perfectly capable of handling things at the same time.

I feel like I am letting my daughter down by just going through this daily routine, without a smile on my face 90% of the time.

I feel guilty because I get annoyed and agitated with the 4 am, 45 minute gassy scream-fest, that seems to be in our nightly schedule lately. I feel guilty when my baby wants to sleep in my arms, and I just want to put her down in the crib so I can lay my head down on the pillow by myself. I feel guilty because I say things to my husband like, “I will be glad when the newborn stage is over.” I feel guilty because I waited so long to be a mom, and now I feel like a failure who can’t even get a grip on my emotions. I feel guilty because I should feel overjoyed, but feel so dragged down.

Right now, what gets me through the day is a little angel I call Averie. I also realize that, just like my tattoo says, “every storm has its end,” and I’m hoping the turmoil I feel now is temporary.