Anger

The past few days I've been at or in between anger at other people and hating myself. I've always hated being angry. I don't know what to do with anger and I've always thought anger is bad, or selfish so I try to stay away from it.

My therapist pointed out that there is a good reason why we have anger and that it is ok to be angry.

Stop right there. It's ok for me to be angry. See it still sounds strange for me to say that. 

She also told me that depression only sees black or white. And I'm struggling with that as well. Everything feels very wrong or very right and I'm trying to tell myself it isn't that simple. 

I feel very fortunate for all of the people who have reached out to me saying they are thinking about me and that they have been there as well. I feel like the number of people who love me and support me should be the only "cure" I need. Just knowing that so many people love me and love my family should be enough for me. And I feel selfish that every day is still so damn hard. Like I'm not feeling the love enough. Admitting this makes me hate myself and resent myself. I feel like a fraud because there are so many loved ones wanting to help and I have nothing to tell them. I struggle with not wanting to be alone and at the same time having anxiety around my friends and family because I don't know what to do with my face which emotion to display. And how to avoid talking about how I've been. I don't want to lie, but I know most people don't know how to respond to me if I were to be completely honest. 

I'm going back and forth on whether or not to delete my fb for awhile. On one hand it brings me joy to see pictures of everyone and their families and pets. On the other hand there are things that pop up that make me want to throw up. News articles and well intended but extremely awful blogs making me feel worse about my depression because at least I have a baby. It's a gamble.

The battle

Here I am. Sitting on the floor. Trying to scrape up a story about how I got here. But the truth is I don't really know.

I know there is a lot of things occupying my space. A lot of riddles I've been trying to solve. But very suddenly I found myself spun out. I can't cope anymore. I'm hurting because I feel shut off and incapable of doing really anything. I wish I was strong and I wish I could soldier on. I can't though. I don't even know how I used to do it. I'm feeling helpless and I feel like I will be here forever. I don't know how to recover from this.

This is very foreign to me. But it just hurts. I know I'm not the support that I could be right now, to my husband, to my son, my family and my friends. It hurts that I can't talk about things with them because it hurts me to try to force words out.

It is unbearable not being able to express myself. To describe how I'm feeling. To work through challenges. It's crippling. I don't feel like myself. I feel like a fraud in my marriage because I'm not who I am supposed to be right now. I can't get away from the guilt and the feeling of failure no matter how many people tell me otherwise. 

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

I hate even writing this because I don't want to burden anyone else with this weight. 

I'll just continue to push through somehow. I don't know what that looks like. But I'll keep trying.

My attempt at writing.

This is really scary for me. I'm going to try to tell you what's going on right now. I'm going to try to write it down. Even though it sucks. If you were to see my thoughts you would see a lot of dead ends. When I try to do something that is even a little tricky I just shut down. I can't think. I couldn't make dinner.

I didn't know where to start. I couldn't do it. I couldn't make my brain move my hands to start doing something. It just shut down and closed up and I froze. Couldn't do it.

I tried to talk to my sister today. I tried to tell her. But I just kept saying I don't know. I would start talking about what was hurting me but then I couldn't. Pause after pause. The words wouldn't even come to my mouth when I needed them to tell someone what I was feeling.

It kinda feels like nothing I guess. My brain won't let me go anywhere. It just shuts down. It can't figure it out so it doesn't try. I guess. 

I tried to call my mom and I tried to read an email. It was painful and I felt like an idiot trying to talk normally. 

I can't express myself. I can't speak well right now. Writing is better. 

I've never felt like this before and it scares the shit out of me. I don't know what to expect, but I want it to stop. And I just keep thinking I'll wake up and be able to feel again and think logically. 

I think this isn't what I expected it to feel like. It's worse than sad. It just sucks and any attempt at handling any situation is a failure. My brain won't let me go there. I don't want to go there because I can't figure it out. Dead ends everywhere. I just want to fix it and write about what's troubling me. But I can't cope. No cope left here.

I'm thankful for all the support from my friends and family. I'm thankful for all the love and cute and funny pictures today. I'm thankful for all the people reaching out sending me messages. 

They make me smile, and I'm appreciative. They were perfect escapes from the dead ends. I feel so blessed that you all love me and want to help. I smiled so much more today because of you. I felt a little closer to happy today because of you. I felt like there is happy out there and you all have it and I'll get it to and it made it feel tangible. Seeing you all love your kids and cats and dogs and have good days. It was good. I know I'll have those good days and feel that peace again. I wish it was easier to get there. I wish there was another way. But you guys made it tangible. I am loved and carried by you all when I can't feel it for myself. So thank you for sharing. I feel horribly exposed knowing you know, but I know you guys can help me better this way. And even though I'm trying to be transparent, I really don't want to talk about it. It makes me very uncomfortable. I am supposed to have an appointment tomorrow. It's supposed to be 90 minutes and I don't think I can make enough words to last that long. I imagine wanting to disappear into the wall so I don't have to talk about it. I really don't want to. I can't deal with what is going on and I'd rather just ignore it and push it further away. 

And by the way "it" all these things i need to deal with. They are nothing. Mundane things that I can't handle. And it makes me angry and very frustrated that I can't handle it. It makes me hate myself.

And when I start to feel like I hate myself I try to turn around and that's where the dead end leaves me. And that's why I know I need help. I know I'm a decent person. I don't enjoy feeling this way. But at the same time I don't want to deal with it. Because I can't. I just can't.

So that's the ugly. I think when I feel better I'll want to have conversations about it. But that's where I'm at.

Anxiety Sucks.

Looking back at those first few weeks... Well I guess those first few months even. I wish I could go back. 

I wish I could go back and brush off the layers of fear that I experienced everything through. I remember bathing my tiny baby wrecked with anxiety his head would go under or I'd hit his head on the faucet. I was afraid to leave the house, knowing he would cry in the car, knowing I just couldn't bare it. I couldn't bare him crying for me and not being able to comfort him. Bed time was an obsessive panic dance instead of a relaxing time in the evening. 

Absolutely everything was covered in a quiet panic. "New moms just worry a lot." As if it was just worry. I don't think I felt safe for ten minutes for the entire first 4 months of his life. 

I wish I could go back and experience having a newborn without feeling like something horrendous was about to happen every second. It makes me frustrated that the anxiety will always be apart of my memory of my sweet boy's newborn phase. 

I'll try to come to peace with it. I'm not sure how. But I'll try.

This is (9 months) postpartum

He jabbers on about his dreams last night  in that soft and wise voice that my son has.
"Ah bah bah baaaaah bah" he informs me as I'm wearing trails in the carpet, moving here to there in our small apartment.
The conversation grew quiet, and not in that peaceful way, like when we are staring into each other's eyes, discovering what's there. No, this was a mischievous quiet, one that is usually followed by the clang of the dog bowl tipping over. I find him around the corner of the bed with a wad of soggy paper in his mouth. I shake off the anxiety that tells me that paper is going to block him up for days. I scoop him up and pull the electric bill out of his mouth. The irony of my crazy baby eating my energy away is laughable. 
My coffee is hot, but if my calculations are correct it will only be the right temperature for approximately ten minutes and within those ten minutes there is a 70 percent chance Uriah is going to need to nurse... or shit his pants. That's what microwaves are for though, for the two to three ounces that will inevitably grow cold in my abandoned cup that I placed somewhere ridiculously high and pushed back on a shelf. Somewhere away from sticky fingers. When I do find my cup again, the microwave will be there for me.
Mornings are peaceful this way. Peaceful in a predictable way, not in a calm or relaxing sort of way. I probably won't shower, but if I do I'll probably have a baby in there with me, taking his time in tearing all the bottles of soap and shampoos off the shelf.
My stale hair actually does the "mom bun" better on day three of not getting washed. But it's all flopped over to the side, and the back of my hair fell out of the bun from yesterday. I gather it back up on top of my head again except this time I'll add a head band. There is a pile of hair on the floor from my postpartum hair loss that I have to pick up so it doesn't get picked up and eaten by the baby. The baby who doesn't like food, but does like eating hair.

Those hunger pains start hollering at me reminding me to eat. Usually the caffeine quiets them for awhile when I actually get to drink it. It's funny because before pregnancy if I would get hungry, I only really worry about myself suffering. When I am breastfeeding every meal is mandatory to keep up my milk supply. Then there is this lingering guilt when I only eat Rice Crispies for breakfast. There is nothing in there for me. Not for me and certainly not for Uriah. I know how important nutrition is for the both of us. I do my best, but when people comment on how much weight I've lost I know I should be rounder. The weight that does or doesn't cling to you isn't a health report, but an observer doesn't care about that anyways. 

This is nine months postpartum. This is a funny place where I still feel like a brand new mom and I still do brand new mom things, but my newborn crawls around and gets into trouble, and shouts "Mama" at me, and I beg him to slow down.

Rośe Conversations

My weight transfers from hip to hip as my eyes dart over, past the bottles of wine I stand behind. To my little boy playing on the lawn with his daddy.
I'm trying to tell my customers about the delicacy of the vanilla notes that dance across the rośe they are tasting. How can I bring up casually that the cute baby over there is mine? Though I feel like I'm covered in it, that new mom skin. It isn't so obvious to strangers. When my baby isn't right next to me, I feel this aching, nagging desire to identify myself as a mother. As if withholding such information is being misleading.
"Oh is that your baby over there?"
Thank goodness she finally asked.
"Yeah, that's my son! He's 9 months..." But I don't stop there. Suddenly I'm emmbarassed that I have to bring my baby to work with me. How do I explain the anxiety? How do I explain that I didn't really try to give him a bottle till recently, and now it's kinda too late. I stumble across my words, knowing it's too much information for someone I just met. For someone who just wanted to taste some wine.
"He won't take a bottle, and he is a busy boy, so he nurses every hour or so. He doesn't really like food either. So all those rolls, I made all of them. So he just comes with me everywhere." I spill.
It's the truth, it's a simple truth, but it sits awkwardly in my belly. I feel inconvenient to most everybody, but I feel so deeply connected to my son that it outweighs the inconvenience. He's 9 months, he only drinks from my breast, and he is always by my side.
I finish pouring the pinot noir, the Avelina, and our marechel foch, and bring the subject back to the weather, and how big our grapes will get this year.
"This weather is way too hot, but the grapes love it! They should be grateful they aren't breastfeeding every hour."
It slipped again, another breastfeeding comment. My confidence withers knowing my ability to make small talk has evaporated.
They bought a couple bottles of the rose though. So I must not have been too bad.

Gentleness

My Moose is growing older, more sweet, more passionate, just as babies should.
His daddy and I are already stretching our minds. How will we raise him to to thoughtful in his actions. It's obvious we have arrived at the time when he can see, feel, and react to what we show him.
So we have a lot of conversations about how we respond to him. When he's fussy. Is he just fussy? Or is he tired? Is he just lonely? Or does he have an intense curiosity about that plastic bag, so do I need to sit with him so he can play with it safely while I watch.
I've found he's usually never "just fussy." Which is both wonderful and challenging. It means that I have to be more present. I can't write off what he's feeling because I'm too involved with my phone, or the TV.
It's so hard listening to him when he tells me, "I'm tired, and I need held," or "I'm frustrated because I don't want to play alone."
When I choose to become a mother I wanted to be a mother who responded to all of his needs. Not just, hungry, or needs a diaper. It's exhausting, and I fail at it a lot, but I keep trying because I want my Moose to know im there for him through it all.
He's got a intensity about him, and when he plays, sometimes he plays too hard. He'll pinch and scratch and it hurts us. Our immediate reaction is to yell "NO." And put him down. But we thought about it, and how does anger encourage him to be gentle? So we rationalized that gentleness begets gentleness.
We slowly pick his fingers off our faces, take a deep breath, and say "gentle Uriah." We can still play without hurting.
It's harder when the day has been long, and the heat of the day has worn us thin. We are the adults though. We must reign in our feelings if we expect him to. That's why I have my husband, and he has me. To help each other through our emotions. To take over when the other just can't. Uriah has us, to help him through his emotions because 9 months is too young to understand those things.
I love our little boy so much. He's pure goodness. I try so hard to think critically about how we are raising him. And what we are showing him.
I'm thankful for my husband, who supports me so I have time to think through my actions. I'm thankful he gives me time to myself so I can take care of myself so there is more of me to give. He's a good husband. He's a good father.