Sunday, March 14, 2010

It's back. I guess it never really left.

The weird thing about the way I do postpartum depression is that it's so inconsistent. For months, I'll be great. Awesome. On top of things. Getting errands ticked off the to-do list, doing laundry, keeping up with the boy. And then all of a sudden I'm just ... not.

Even now, some days I'm drunk on nothing but air and laughter and gazing at my giving and supportive and freaking good-looking husband, and the sheer heartbreaking perfection of my son's long eyelashes and spiky hair. I'm happy. I feel good, like myself. And then some days, I just cry. And I can never tell why. My husband and my mom both inquire gently, lovingly -- "What's wrong? Talk to me." But there's never an answer.

I have to make myself eat. Nothing seems appealing enough to drag out of the pantry or fridge, let alone prepare and consume. I find myself eating a Luna bar as a meal, choking down some water when I think of it, making myself have a piece of toast when boy does, just to keep the pregnancy I'm-too-hungry nausea at bay.

If I think to myself, "I should take a shower," it seems like too much work. If I muster up the energy to actually get into the shower, I never want to get out. The inertia of this depression is incredibly powerful.

I want to tell someone I feel horrible. But I don't know how. Because I know they'd say, "Why?" And there's no reason. My life is amazing. I live in a home I love, with the only man I ever felt safe with and truly loved by, one I love more than I know how to express. I have a healthy, delightful, intelligent, sweet two-year-old who tells me, "Bless you, mom!" when I sneeze, who says "Please" and "Thank you" and "Excuse me" when appropriate. I have a loving family who would do anything for me that I asked. There is absolutely no reason to feel so crappy.

With the help of my doctors, I upped my meds a bit two weeks ago. It didn't help much, so now I've nudged them upward again. I'm giving it another week to really kick in. I've been very vocal with my doctors about not wanting to go too far above what's considered the lowest possible dose of meds for my particular case, and so far I'm still hovering near the "we don't give prescriptions for any lower than this" threshold. For the baby's sake, I feel good about that. If I have to up the ante a little more, though, I guess I'll deal. Because my two-year-old deserves a better mother than the one he's getting, and so does the new one who will arrive in less than 10 weeks. My husband deserves a wife who can smile at him, who doesn't just gaze out of the car window on errand runs on the weekends. My mom deserves a daughter who can answer her phone calls with a modicum of courtesy and interest.

And I deserve to feel like myself.

I'm tired of having this problem. As much as it helps to post about it, I hate doing it, because I wonder who out there is thinking, "Again? Broken record, SHEESH."

I'm sorry, you guys. I'll get better. There's too much that's good in my life for me NOT to. I don't want to miss this time with my kids. (!!) I don't want to miss this time with my husband and family.

Just please -- bear with me. If you think of it, prayers would be awesome.


emlocke said...

All you said about your appetite—I'm right there with you. "I guess I should eat something. Eh. I'd probably feel better if I ate *something* but I just don't even . . . " Ten minutes later, "Okay, really, really think about it—what *could* I eat? Peanut butter toast? Yeah, okay, that sounds fine, I guess. The peanut butter is in the cabinet and the bread is in the fridge and I'll just pop it in the toaster oven and . . . gawd, forget it, never mind."

I'm glad it helps to write about it. You might be surprised how much it helps to read about it!

golriz lucina said...

prayers heading your way from nashville. x