Ever since the early months of my first pregnancy, I have been wary of the threat of postpartum depression. Having had my share of bottom-sucking low moments and suicidal thoughts throughout high school and into college, I have been aware of the fact that motherhood and the hormones that come with it could kick me back into depression mode before I could consciously think enough pink and blue thoughts to stay the course of sanity. I have also been terrified of what I could be passing on to my children in the way of being a psychological downer. I think it’s safe to say I suffered from undocumented depression as early as first grade. I remember stressing about getting work done even then. Damn perfectionist tendencies. Undue stress.
And here I am, a mom of two. Boys. I survived the postpartum period after my first without much issue. I think a lot of that was thanks to my being able to focus on the awesome novelty of the situation, not that I wasn’t having any baby blues. This time, though, I feel so incredibly overwhelmed. I’m constantly tired. I feel like I’m always yelling at the munchkin. I’m stressed that I can’t seem to get my milk production back up to par and that, in turn, is adding to my troubles. I have no appetite, and so I need to force myself to eat in order to have any hope of bumping my milk back up.
Meanwhile, I have to somehow fit into this damn bridesmaid dress for next month. It’s freaking two sizes bigger than my prepregnancy size, and I still can’t zip it. I’m still 15-20 lbs over my prepregnancy weight, which wouldn’t be such an issue if I had ANY money to spend on clothes that fit. But I don’t. So instead, I’m still wearing maternity clothes, which sure as hell aren’t HELPing my self image.
Have I mentioned how tired I feel?
The baby’s fussing again. I passed him off to DH (who has to open tomorrow) and don’t feel bad about it at all even though it’s quarter to 1AM. I know he has an early morning and a long day at work tomorrow, but I’ll have the entire day with both kids by myself. Let him figure it out for now.
I need to write, but I forget how. God, please don’t let my writing go the way of my painting.
Grandpap R. says I “never should have given up painting” and that I’m not so good at poetry or whatever. But that’s a f***ing different journal entry. (Yes, I needed the expletive there.) That’s one of those things I’m glad Mom told me but I wish she hadn’t. Or something. I can’t dwell there.
I’m so stupidly hormonal. I don’t know whom I need to talk to about this. I shouldn’t be so down anymore.
I just want to sleep.
It scares me how easily I can ignore the baby’s crying.
It scares me how easily I yell at the munchkin.
It scares me how often I want to hit the munchkin because he won’t listen. He laughs at me when I yell at him. He thinks I’m joking.
I want to take my pillow and go hide in the closet. Like when I was little. Somehow that was safe. That’s what I need.