I used to say, and truly believe, that all I wanted was a happy, rested baby. Of course I’m human though, so as soon as that need has been met Maslow kicks me in the ass.
This is supposed to be where I tell the truth, so here it is: the better he gets – the worse I feel. I don’t feel bad because he feels better – don’t everyone go all nutty one me. It’s simply that as the layers of worry and fear fall away other feelings start to poke their way into my brain. There’s no more running. My brain is working again – and that isn’t necessarily a good thing.
I’ve dealt with depression and anxiety before. Almost 15 years ago now – wow. I was medicated. I had a therapist. I found a support group. I pulled my self out of the hole slowly and painfully and I have been diligent about staying away from quicksand ever since. When my heart and mind needed quiet I closed myself away from the world and gave it to them. When I needed people and noise I found that too. Over the last 15 years I have worked to learn more about myself and have tried to become friends with me.
Let me tell you, that shit ain’t easy.
First of all, I’m needy. I’m bitchy and opinionated. I’m sensitive and easily embarrassed. I love HARD and I can be demanding and whiny. I’m also pretty shitty at communicating. You cannot get me on the phone. Unless you are my father the odds of actually getting me to pick up when you call or to call you back are so small as to be statistically insignificant. I just don’t do it. Unlike my mother, who will spend an hour on the phone telling you how much she hates talking on the phone, I truly hate the experience of talking to someone I cannot see. It seems totally unreal and way too invasive all at the same time.
My best friend called me the other day. She left me a message. I didn’t check it for days because I knew that once I did I would have to deal with it. With her. With her worrying about me and with her loving me and with her being at least a little pissed at my lack of communication and with her not being wrong about any of it. As long as I didn’t listen to it it wasn’t real. Everything was ok.
There are no more excuses now. I’m not up all night. The Tiny Tyrant is teething, which can be a horrible experience for both of us, but he’s also sleeping like a champ, getting into everything and generally loving life.
This should be the time when I begin to stretch like a bud and break through the soil and reach for the sun. This should be the time when I unfurl and reclaim my place in the warmth and the light. Instead all I want to do is curl into a ball and sleep in the dark.
Some of it is my fault. I’ve let the house get disorganized and dirty and that always affects my mood deeply. I don’t have a regular schedule. I’m not eating great. I’m not exercising regularly. I’m not taking time away from life either. I am never, ever alone. Nope, that’s not true – there were about 40 minutes of time this week when I was driving and did not have the TT with me. See? Whiny.
I take my meds. Every day. I take care of my baby boy and I make sure that my family is fed. I am always, always in charge on the outside and less and less in control on the inside.
I’m making a list of things to do this week. Find a therapist is on it. In the meantime…
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