As I grow older, my introverted half is starting to take over. When this isolation started, I felt guilty about how good it felt to slow down. It’s something I’ve been trying, and failing, to do lately.
Week 1: The first week at home with the kids was, dare I say it, blissful (I hate that word).
Week 2: Things are a little different, I had some projects to complete and no time to myself. I discover that for 60 minutes a day, my toddler would sit in a dark room with her sister and watch a movie as long as she had a giant bowl of popcorn.
By the end of week two, I started to feel strange about how little I felt. I read stories about people who are scared and grieving. After an online yoga class and some vulnerable heart-chakra-opening poses, I finally shed a few tears. I missed the energy in a room full of stressed-out-yogies, doing their best to stay zen.
Week 3: I started thinking about all the small, but significant, daily conversations I had with my pilates instructor, parents at school-pick up, the brief but meaningful interactions that make me feel like I’m part of a community. Like I’m known and seen, even if I mostly want to hide in my art studio and listen to podcasts, working.
As much as hiding from people feels safe, not seeing anyone is odd. Especially the mental hurdle of no travel. Grounded. It was always difficult and expensive for me to see my family in the USA, but now it’s impossible.
Yet in these strange, uncertain times, humankind has never been more connected. This virus affects every single one of us and our planet. It’s like Mother Earth has called a time-out for us to think about our destruction and capitalism.
Week 4: Now into week four, with distance learning, working from home and monotony, we are all starting to lose our shit a little. The kids are emotional, my already thin patience- evaporated, but we are still doing the best we can. Friday night, I did some Yin online while Matt put the kids to bed. Then I sat in front of the fireplace, on my yoga mat with a glass of tequila, despair bubbling.
Week 5: Back into a groove, giving fewer shits about schoolwork helps. Unexpected tears and sobbing on Friday night. Felt cathartic in many ways. The valves have been dusty for a while now, I don’t think I’ve cried like that since before I went on antidepressants about four months ago.
Week 6: What even is this?
Week ??: I’ve stopped counting, and all the sudden schools are reopening. It feels like it’s all happening so fast! Many mixed feelings about this. Not sure I’m ready for re-entry.
Today: Dropped the girls off at school and occasional care respectively. I had strange feelings about the whole thing, but I grabbed a takeaway coffee and hit the studio. It’s (no surprise) quiet. Especially now that I’ve turned the podcasts off for a few minutes. So I guess this is the new normal?
I'm starting a new decade on medication for anxiety and depression. For most of 2019, I felt mentally healthier than ever before, until I didn't.
From the outside looking in, I'm kicking goals and achieving great professional success. In the last three months, I've organised an art exhibition, launched my new website after months of work, started a copywriting business, produced art for two shows, and I've been published in a multi-author book.
Working from home over the last year, the healthy stress of building my business turned unhealthy while I wasn't paying attention. I slipped into workaholism because I absolutely love what I do. The problem, in my opinion, is that I put too much pressure on myself.
Work was the first thing on my mind every morning, after dreaming about it through the night. Solutions often come to me in my sleep. And Sleep! What a wondrous activity after years of insomnia. I felt FINE. Until I didn't.
I worked while the kids were at school or daycare, during the afternoon nap, after they went to bed. I worked while cooking dinner and snapped when they interrupted me. My 6-year-old asked me, "Mom, why do you work so much," and I would respond, "because it makes me happy," thinking I was setting a good example of a non-martyr-mother.
I looked at every opportunity to distract my kids so I could check my email or write a paragraph for a client. I set up my studio the night before a daycare-day, so I could make the most of every second of my 'free time.' I stopped going to yoga in favour of working. I ate lunch at my desk, often while listening to a podcast and checking emails.
Suddenly every responsibility became a chore to stress over. On a scale from one to ten, my anxiety was a solid 11 at all times. I felt jumpy, irritable, and frustrated. I couldn't get through a morning with my kids without yelling (or a school run, bath time, or the bedtime routine).
I packed my days so tightly that one spilled green smoothie on the kitchen floor threw out the schedule and sent me into overdrive. My adrenaline pumped while I tore my hair out.
Still, I felt 'happy' about finishing projects and slicing through my to-do list.
Then on a random Thursday, immediately after dinner I sat checking my emails and saw one from our rental agent (we sold our house a year ago to flip the table on our life) giving us 120 days to vacate the property.
We had only lived in the house for about 10 months and had been waiting to sign another two or three-year lease.
I tried to play it cool by problem-solving with my husband, but I think it's the straw that broke my brain.
I spent an entire weekend, either screaming or sobbing. For the first time, I felt completely out of control of my emotions.
Monday Morning I rang my GP. Tuesday I had a prescription for antidepressants.
The decision to try medication was excruciatingly painful. I tried Lexipro over ten years ago, for about 9 months, and I felt like a total zombie. I hated the way they numbed me, but it's something I needed to distance myself from a severe depression that prevented me from coping with my life at the time.
Because of my experience with the meds in my 20's, I refused medication every time my doctor or MCH nurse brought it up during the postnatal depression days.
What sucked, even more, is that over the last ten months or so, I've been happier than I can remember being since childhood. I felt satisfied, contented, fulfilled. Somehow I let it slip through my fingers, and it felt like defeat.
I worried that taking medication would dull my creativity or turn me into an emotionless husk.
In my doctor's office, I couldn't even get the words out without crying. She handled the conversation in the most supportive way possible and changed the way I feel about antidepressants. She told me I do all the right things, by eating well, exercising, and therapy, but "sometimes the environment acts upon you," she said. She gave me the example of an asthmatic going out into a pollen storm.
"You are not a failure," she told me as if reading my mind. "This is the nature of disease, you will have flare-ups."
We talked about the pros and cons of different medications and decided on Cymbalta. The plan is to try it for 6-12 months.
Three weeks on the medication, things started improving. The first two were rough. Physically I felt like I had morning sickness. And then the tiredness. So tired all day long. I felt fuzzy and couldn't concentrate or write. I felt my appetite dissipate but so did my anxiety- and this gave me hope.
I had patience during school pick up. I stopped yelling. I started looking my kids in the eyes. I left the phone on our kitchen bench. I stopped trying to multitask constantly.
Unfortunately once that anxious cloud lifted, depression lingered under the surface. Previously I didn't feel depressed, and I'm guessing that anxiety must have been propelling me forward in a stream of tasks and nervousness.
The flatness, the sadness, gave me even more reason to stick with the medication. Maybe this time, it's a simple matter of chemistry.
I withdrew from any activities that were not essential, and I was honest with everyone who needed to know at the time. About four weeks in, right after my book launch, I had a reasonable 24 hour period, where I felt like myself again. No depression, no anxiety. This gave me even more hope.
Two months on the meds now and aside from a bit of dry mouth and occasional nausea if I don't eat regularly, I'm feeling…I don't want to say, 'normal' because I hate that word…I feel like one big exhale. Like how it feels when you finally sit down after hours of standing. You melt into the chair without realising how much energy it took you to remain upright.
Maybe I got stuck in a heightened state, I'm not sure. All I know is that I needed to go on this medication because it's brought me back into myself. I think it might dull the top and bottom emotions a little bit, but I still feel a range of feelings.
To anyone struggling out there. I see you. I'm with you. There is absolutely no shame in doing everything in your power to feel better.
Resources for help with mental health:
“When I finally felt ready for a second child, years later, I spoke to my therapist about preventative strategies in case PND started throwing its weight around a second time. I had notes and lists. I built a strong sense of identity as a woman and mother and felt ready to fight. What I didn't prepare for was a terrifying emergency caesarean, milk supply issues and a baby with silent reflux. I felt my body betrayed me. The negative self-talk and feelings of failure made themselves at home again.
Depression doesn't care about your lists.
When I received news of my beloved Grandmother's sudden death my anxiety became untethered. I always felt she was an anchor to my true self, and it was like someone just snipped the rope without warning. I couldn't make it to the USA in time for her funeral so I wrote the eulogy and watched the service via FaceTime at 2 am. Weeks later, my Uncle also unexpectedly passed.
I felt like the teenager pushing my emptiness down with a banana, protecting everyone else from the discomfort my feelings created. I wanted to disappear but only because I thought my family would be better off without my misery.
I felt ashamed because I had no valid ‘reason' to be sad, we had such a beautiful life. Depression does not discriminate but knowing that didn't help me feel much better about it.
The grief and isolation triggered a deep, intense depression as I had never known. Rock bottom rushed toward me as I fell.”
This is an excerpt from my book chapter. You might know about my struggle with postnatal depression if you’ve been following me for the last six years. What you might not know is that I battled with depression (undiagnosed and untreated) since my teens. Even my husband learned new things about me when I let him proofread the manuscript.
Parts of my story are confronting but it has a positive ending. I wouldn’t be able to be here, and able to share it otherwise.
To be honest, I'm going through a rough patch at the moment but since my story is ongoing, I know everything will be okay eventually.
Thank you for reading.
#changemakersbook
Release date 6 December 2019
Recently I grabbed an opportunity by the ovaries. It’s kind of insane-but not really- and it fills one of my lifelong dreams, to be published in a book.
Change Makers, 20 Inspirational Stories from Women Making an Impact in the Lives of Others.
My co-authors are business owners, entrepreneurs and change-makers in their fields. I haven’t changed the world but in the last decade, I’ve changed myself. I’ve shed the obedient, good-girl people-pleaser, I’ve battled mental health issues but came through the other side and started chasing down my dreams like only a formerly-mad-woman could.
I keep seeing all these posts about how there are only # weeks left in THIS DECADE. The posts are all, “Get it, Sis! Take that risk!” I wholeheartedly agree to a point but some of us are slower movers, and that’s cool. Real, sustainable change takes time.
So for those of you who might need more than a few weeks to take a huge risk, I want you to know it’s okay to make small steps in the right direction.
When I look back at the last decade, the ’10’s, I see how some of my biggest challenges involved getting out of bed and into the shower (up there with moving across the globe on the difficulty scale at times). I’ve been to hell and back in my own mind. From complete darkness to total joy. I did it by building the bridge across one board at a time.
If I look back to 2009, the year I transferred my whole life from Buffalo, New York, to Melbourne, Australia, I’m in a completely different place, mentally, physically (obviously), and emotionally. But even after that bold move, it’s been a constant evolution.
Now I’m being called to share my experience with others with the hope to inspire, at the least and at the most help women express their true, wild selves at the very most.
If I can do it, then anyone can.
Love, peace and babysteps,
xoxoxoxo
Dawn
#changemakersbook
When I was in kindergarten I remember taking some sort of aptitude test. It required me to cut a circle out of a piece of red construction paper.
I started cutting. The sides looked uneven so I snipped and trimmed again and again until I had a red circle in my palm the size of a cherry. I remember being disappointed about the smallness of that dot. It still looked uneven. I wanted to start over.
Perfectionism stems from being a people pleaser. It is a behaviour that attempts to control other people’s perception of us. It’s not striving for excellence, nor is it healthy.
Dr Brene Brown refers to perfectionism as armour; “Perfection is, at its core, about trying to earn approval. Early praise for achievement and performance has become a dangerous and debilitating belief system.” She says that overall it’s not a mechanism to avoid shame, it’s a function of shame itself.
Most of my life I tried to control the way other people saw me when actually I was preventing them from seeing the REAL me. I feared that if people saw me in all of my brokenness than no one would like or love me.
Today I am comfortable in my discomfort. I like being different, difficult, strange, or as my lovely husband calls me “complex.” He says; “Complex different from complicated because complicated is hard.” He loves a challenge and life with me is never boring. I take it as a compliment.
This relates to creative pursuits. To use another cliche, perfectionism is the enemy of creativity. In order for me to create, my goal cannot and will not ever be ‘perfection.’ How could any of us possibly master a craft without making mistakes first? Mistakes are the best teachers (and trust me, sometimes the things you do to cover up mistakes offer the most incredible discoveries).
My daughter has this book called, Beautiful Oops. It’s about turning your drips, rips and tears into something lovely. We now refer to any artistic mistakes as ‘a beautiful oops’ (she’s already like me in that she’s hard on herself when she screws up). I highly recommend the book for mini perfectionist kiddos (or anyone really).
Be different. Be weird. Be messy & imperfect.
Running my fingers along the twisted scar on my abdomen I wince at the tissue’s thickness and what it represents.
The baby cries impatiently as I fumble for my glasses. I haven’t slept more than a three-hour clip in four months. For a moment I flopped back down in bed and pulled the blanket over my head. What if I just refused to get up?
Less than six months ago. I felt that close to giving up. Every. Single. Day.
I tried to prepare for my second child. Took all the preventative measures to avoid or minimise a second round of postnatal depression. The emergency caesarian was not part of my plan. Nor the reflux issues and sleeplessness that followed.
I retreated from my social networks. I couldn't taste food. I felt equal parts overwhelmingly busy and bored. My interests faded. The negative self-talk had a freaking field day on my self-esteem.
{There were several exceptional humans who helped with my responsibilities, allowed me to nap, brought me coffee, let me cry, DM'ed me the best midwife advice. Thank you, my village.}
My husband was also sleep-deprived and stressed beyond recognition. His usual positivity gave way to worry due to uncertainty at work. Lucky guy, he bounced from one stressful environment to another. It took every last breath in his tank to make sure I wasn't going to completely lose my marbles. We barely saw one another, he barely saw the girls.
This too shall pass, they say. But when you’re in the middle of it, the end alludes you.
When my Grandmother passed away in New York and I couldn’t get home for the funeral, it was the closest to a nervous breakdown I’ve ever felt.
It was time for the BIG question. What’s it all for?
That’s when we flipped the Goddamn table on our life.
Matt got his Commercial and Residential builders licenses. With this massive goal achieved, it was like someone flung open a window in our house full of closed doors. As a family, all four of us managed to squeeze out of that little escape hatch and bust into the sunlight.
1. By Being a Good Person
Matt worked his ass off for fifteen years in the construction industry. He made great relationships with subcontractors and built a reputation for himself as a fair, respectful and honest person. Don't burn bridges unless they're toxic, stand up for what's right, people will remember you for it. Protect your reputation.
2. Making Time
There's never enough 'time.' Never for anyone, ever. Throw out that excuse. Matt pursued a life-long dream of getting his builders license even though the timing was downright shitty after having our second baby. I supported him and complained every step of the way. Two days a week I only saw him during night feeds. We got through it and I wouldn't change a thing.
3. Sacrificing Something Big
We sold our dream home. At the end of the day, it’s sticks and bricks. Better that we have more autonomy, more time as a family. It was an emotional rollercoaster selling in today's market. But we've done it! Cashed-up, and cashed-in, ready to start our business. Something had to give and I’m glad it was the house and not one of our brains.
4. Creating The Scariest Thing We Could Think Of
We started our own construction company. Everyone Matt speaks to about starting a business says the same thing, “Starting my own business is the best thing I’ve ever done, my only regret is not doing it sooner.” It takes gonads. It takes teamwork. It takes trust. Our chips are in and we are high-fiving all the way to the starting line.
Matt has been home with the kids and I for the last few months. We’ve been tested with two deaths in the family, my depression, the four of us getting sick for a month, a baby who didn’t sleep through the night, selling our home in a declining market….I’m not sure how much more pressure you can place on a partnership.
The experience has absolutely galvanised us.
We made all the difficult decisions as a team. We trusted one another. We supported each other. We snuggled our babies and took turns sleeping-in (he only had a few turns).
My mental health is the best it’s been in years if not decades. THIS is what it's all about.
I know if all goes to plan, life will get busy again. Matt will be working long hours and the pressure will ramp up. The difference is that this time it's on our own terms. The risks are greater but so are the potential rewards.
Life is too short to stay on a socially constructed path. There are other ways to do things. Take a risk, get off the grid, travel, love, create. It’s probably going to involve a trade or a sacrifice but what’s more important, being safe or living?
“Life is all about not knowing, and then doing something anyway.” Mark Manson (from Screw Finding your Passion).
Please take care of your family, heads, and hearts, my friends.
What’s the biggest risk you ever took? What did you learn from it?
It's uncool to be obsessed with your kids.
But sometimes (ok, most of the time) I am.
Sometimes Motherhood totally sucks and makes me feel like a failure in all kinds of ways. I try to be honest about it, try to blow up the myth of Motherly perfection at any chance I get.
Motherhood can go suck eggs…if it weren’t for the kids.
I don’t want to love my kids more than anything else in life, that’s not very productive. I preach about self-care, me-time, investing in other relationships, identity and future. Who am I trying to convince if not myself?
When I kiss their little foreheads, sometimes I smoosh a little too long. It’s like I want our skin to feel combined again.
Today I caught myself looking longingly at a pregnant woman (how quickly we forget!) My last pregnancy was nausea for the first three months and back-pain for the following six. Then I had a traumatic, emergency Caesarian, and a newborn with reflux. I was so tired for the first four months of her life that I couldn't tell time after 3:00PM.
You hear about this movement, a rumbling of honest Mums who want to contribute other things to this world. Careers, hobbies, relationships…ect. More than just babies. I want to be, and am, part of it- most of the time.
I’ve never been more passionate about anything else in my entire life. That’s saying a lot because most people would describe me as passionate to the point of intense (or even abrasive).
If you were to ask me what my greatest accomplishment in life was, without hesitation it would be my daughters. If I die tomorrow my only regret would be not seeing them grow. I’m totally okay with all other decisions I’ve made in my life (even the wrong ones).
The most visceral, surreal, moments of my life were their births- for a multitude of reasons. In comparison, I was lightyears calmer and collected even on my wedding day. Falling in love is an incredible feeling, it’s a huge hit that eventually settles-in but with children, it’s the opposite. The love starts small and as you get to know them, and watch them become little people, your love grows. It grows so big that sometimes thinking about it is hard to handle without getting anxious. Or maybe it’s just me.
I know I will fail so hard at this, many times (I already have), and I accept that. Even now, I don’t live up to their standards “grandma is nicer than you, Mom.” Still, I vow to keep doing my best.
My confession here is that sometimes I am loving it more than I let on. I am secretly enjoying rocking my baby to sleep, vice-hugging my four-year-old until she wiggles away, imagining crawling under their perfect skin or even better, them crawling back into mine. It’s creepy, I know.
My children stole my soul so I must fight, daily, to get a small piece of it back. I need to keep some for myself so I can maintain a bit of self-respect and at least a shadow of my identity for when the day comes when the girls leave me. They will think they no longer need me.
Even as a 37-year-old Mother of two, I still need nurturing. I’ve learned to provide it to myself so I don’t have to rely on others (or so I won't get let down because of my impossibly high standards). If I can do this, remain whole, un-needy, I can demonstrate that to my daughters that they are okay, with or without me. That way they won’t have to learn this skill so late in life. I should probably start by not letting on just how obsessed I am with them. But probably they already know.
This morning, curled up in a ball on the couch, hoodie pulled over my face, I cried like a teenager while my husband left for work. The baby, who decided to wake for the day at 5:00 am, gurgled in her swing while Morning Show hosts prattled on about celebrity couples. I didn’t even know J.Lo had another new boyfriend. Can’t say I’m surprised.
Depressed people tend to focus on the negatives. Like how today there’s no kinder, no creche (at the gym), daylight savings just ended, and my kids didn’t get the memo.
Sometimes even our most skilfully built villages aren’t available when you’re a transplant. I can’t call my Mother to come over for an hour so I can go back to bed because I’m on the other side of the world. She would probably remind me that it was my choice to move to Australia (as if it were a choice). My Mother in law has already done some hard yards for us over the last few months. So, here we are.
My makeshift village is a skeleton crew after the Easter long weekend. I have (many, amazing) friends but I wouldn’t dream of calling them on a day when my main complaint is, "I feel blah," they have their own kids on school holidays and don’t need to add me to their responsibilities list.
I tell myself, "Get it together, you should be better by now, Imogen is six months old." The dreaded first year is half over. Well....perhaps the truth is I didn’t completely escape PND this round. Maybe for different reasons, and at a lesser intensity, it’s still the same familiar beast. We had a support network in place but we also had silent reflux. Same, same, but different.
In the middle of the night, the tiredness actually makes me feel old and worn out. I bleed motivation for projects that typically fire me up and make me happy. The question meant to kill all creativity creeps into my mind, “What’s the point?”
When I look at the baby through my hoodie hole, she smiles at me. Big. I don’t want to be cheered up but I can’t help it. This is why I don’t run away and why I don’t quit.
I decided to drop any and all expectations of myself today. It actually helped a little.
Sweeping the floors I started writing sentences in my head then gave myself permission to stop bloody sweeping and record a few words while the kids were entertained. If I didn’t I would lose the story like I’ve lost countless others to the newborn fog.
Writing, creating, and sharing it all, is the thing that will pull me through.
When Lavinia told me she had enough TV, I decided she deserves the playground for being such a legend (I flipping hate playgrounds). And since I haven’t left the house or yard in six days, maybe I needed a walk as well.
It took a few hours because we didn’t rush. (I’m not exaggerating, it can take hours between bottles, meals, nappy changes, outfit changes, sunscreen, hats, and shoes to get two kids out of the house- just in case you didn’t know.)
Mama got a treat too. I stuffed the laptop in the pram in the hopes of having a few moments of baby-nap. You're reading this so, you know I scored!
Depression sucks a lot of life away but maybe if I take these tiny opportunities to shine things up, it could end up a much better day than it started out to be.
I feed, clothe, bathe, care for, nurture, love, and live for my children. I’ve given them my body and soul. Do I have to freaking entertain them too?
You know those people who are self-professed 'Big Kids'? Nope. Not me. Born a grown up, I hate playing puzzles and board games. I would rather sit through a Catholic mass than go to the playground.
My husband seems effortless in his play and banter with our oldest. They laugh together at Minions. He teaches her how to pay for things at the store. Me? I’m always in a rush.
It's bad to rush kids, I know that, but sometimes I race toward 'bedtime' like a hurdler. There is no stopping to smell the roses now that I have a second child. Teeth-brushed, jump. Jammies on, jump. Story-read, jump. Then I jump onto my couch with Netflix before the baby wakes for her next feed. On a good day, I get to drink my coffee before it goes cold and collapse on the couch before 9:00PM.
Do other Mothers feel the same or am I a stick in the mud? Maybe it’s that invisible mental load presenting itself? You know the one. The absence of which allows the 'other parent' to breeze past a dirty towel on the floor without grabbing it and throwing on a load of laundry? That.
My daughter helps me cook, fold laundry, and sometimes 'works' next to me on her wooden laptop. Quality time + getting jobs done= multitasking. That's all parenting is, really. I like to think I’m teaching her life skills, the same one's millennials claim to lack. My four-year-old won't need to call me to ask how to boil an egg. Just sayin'.
I so badly want to be a more relaxed parent. One who can leave dishes in the sink and run around in the backyard after dinner. Unfortunately, as a recovering perfectionist and new mother of two, the kitchen is the only thing I can control in my life. So I NEED to have those dishes done or I’ll twitch.
Not only do I sweat the dishes but I over-think almost every conversation I have with my daughter. Am I building her confidence or over-praising? Am I showing trustworthiness? Do I sound too cranky? How much should I set aside for her therapy?
In my own most recent therapy session, we concluded I take parenting way too seriously.
Last night while putting the girls to bed, Lavinia made me laugh out loud. Like, really laugh from my belly. Not the fake enthusiasm I’ve dispensed at appropriate times all day long. She’s a really funny kid who adores spreading joy. When the new baby grins at me, no matter how filthy my mood, I can’t help but smile from the inside out.
Isn't THAT what this is all about? Joy, not multi-tasking. Someday the girls won't demand my attention anymore, they won't even want it.
There is always something to do, and I suppose there always will be. I’m working to silence my anal-retentiveness (which I realize is a form of anxiety) to gain more of the good stuff. I don’t need to cook every single night, the phone needs to go away more often, we won’t implode if no one bathes for a day or two.
Rather than rushing through 'jobs', I'm thinking it's actually more productive to give my budding comedian an attentive audience. Maybe then I will have, and be, a lot more fun.
contains sponsored link
Social Media is not real. Or maybe it's a half-truth like a little white lie. Arguably it's more like a one-hundreth of the truth.
The images that stop your thumb represent only the best frames of our lives, edited, curated and filtered for mass consumption.
I try to be as authentic as possible with Kangaroo Spotting but even I find myself forming an online ‘brand,' depending on the platform of course. On Instagram, I focus more on artwork and creativity because it lends itself to a visual aesthetic. On Facebook, it's parenting so that we can have discussions. The audiences in both places are different. I know because I look at analytics.
One of my close friends dropped in the other week when she was in the neighborhood. And because she’s so lovely, she apologised for not checking in on me more (which she shouldn’t have done because she’s one of the few people I’ve seen more than once since Imogen was born). She told me that social media told her I seemed fine and in the same breath she chastised herself because "that stuff isn’t real."
Her throwaway comment got me thinking. And until I sat down to write this, I don't think I realised just how much I curate my own social media feeds, even though I pride myself on writing honestly about personal topics.
Back to my friend who simply wanted to see for herself…I had to wonder. Does everyone else think I’m fine?
Fine. It's a 'four letter word' in my opinion. My high school English teacher called it a wimpy word. It's just another, vague, crappy description that could mean anything and nothing at the same time.
Right now as I'm sitting here writing for the first time in forever, my four-year-old is screaming for me to bring her books to read on the toilet and I fully screamed back at her like a person possessed. My voice had a nasty edge that would make me ashamed if anyone else heard.
Five minutes to tap while the baby sleeps, it's all I wanted. Just enough to open the value on my pent up creativity. It's been bottling up inside me like hot steam. I have trouble falling back to sleep after night feeds because I think of topics and sentences that I'm too tired to write down during daylight.
I’m lucky the baby and I are both physically healthy, she’s eating and feeding well but it’s still a struggle (and I am too tired to fight the battle.) Shout out to the Mama's who deal with colic, reflux, latching, sleep-issues ect. I don’t know how you do it. Even without any of those problems my brain chemistry is thrown off and I can slip into dark moods.
And I'm even luckier that with this postpartum period, I don't linger in those shadows for very long. They usually disappear when I have rest, help, or if I manage to accomplish something other than keeping the kids alive for the day.
Guilt floods my brain now as I hear my sweet Lavinia reading a story to her baby sister whom she woke with her (our) yelling. The little ten-week-old, giggling, makes me realize that I haven't done any damage to either of my girls.
The moral of the story is don't believe everything you see.
If you're stressed and need some advice check out this link for some profesh advice.
