I apologise in advance for the melodrama that is sure to plague this post. I'm not very good at writing emotional posts, as I always feel so self-conscious. In real life I'm not much of an emoter outside the comfort of my own home, and I hate hate hate crying in front of people other than The Dude. I guess this is why I'm so paranoid when I write about being sad or depressed, because I feel like it's just way too much drama. When I write like that, I think it comes off sounding like a diary entry by a very histrionic 13 year old. I'm very much a wipe away the tears and get on with it person, so to give in and express my emotions is difficult. Someone once commented on here that they felt as if I'm often holding back. I thought about that for awhile after I read it, and I'm sure that person is right. Of the 160+ posts I've done, only about 10 at most have a sad or depressed tone. Revealingly, a few of those posts have come post-P., despite the infertility issues I've written about here for almost two years.
I've arrived at the conclusion that I am so over motherhood right now. I spend my days lamenting the fact that I even bothered to go through everything to get to this. This is hell. I was starting to crawl out of the misery that I had been wallowing in for awhile, until it all started to go downhill again. P. started her medication to get rid of the GERD and for a day I had an almost-wonderful baby. Unfortunately the doctor neglected to mention that a side effect of these thickening agents is constipation. Glorious, glorious constipation. Constipation that makes my baby scream her head off enough all day to put all those colicky hours to shame. The constant screaming drives me to my bed, hiding under the duvet and crying uncontrollably. For the first time in years, today I wanted to do something to myself.
One night about five years ago, I locked myself in the bathroom and sat on the floor sobbing for two hours. At the time I was stuck in the same town in which I grew up, working a retail job I hated, and feeling as if my life was going absolutely nowhere. I hated my body, which is nothing new for me, but my self-hatred was at a peak thanks to the other things going on in my life. While sitting on the floor, I grabbed a razor, fully intending on cutting myself. I somehow rationalised to myself that by creating a strong physical pain, it would help alleviate, or at least diminish my immense emotional pain. Putting that in words makes it sound ridiculous, but I think anyone that has been in that position would fully understand what I'm saying.
I know near-cutting is just the cusp of what some people have experienced. Many women are cutters, not near-cutters, so this is where I feel very melodramatic. Why do I think my pain is so severe when I'm just someone who almost made a mistake?
Back to contemporary times. A couple of weeks ago I really thought the worst had passed. We were getting help for the GERD, and surely that was the problem, right? Maybe for once my baby would not be the one crying the entire time during one of my mums and baby group meetings. Perhaps I wouldn't spend every moment of my days trying to prevent P. from crying, and eventually I'd be able to relax. Not relax as in sit down and feel all the negative stuff disappear, but relax as in just have a period of time that I wasn't just waiting for the next set of wails to commence.
I have come to the conclusion that I definitely love P., I just don't like her most days. The Dude keeps irritating the hell out of me by saying, "This isn't her fault!", as if I believe that this three month old baby is orchestrating all of this just to piss me off. I am well aware that she cannot help crying in reaction to whatever it is she is feeling, but I am less and less able to deal with it and function normally. I don't have any sense of separation anxiety in the least. If someone in The Dude's family offered to take her off me for a day or a week I would be fine with that. I'm such a great mother.
I have been of the opinion since soon after P.'s birth that I wanted to go back to work. Now. I get a year of maternity leave, but I feel like I need to go back now to escape. I feel absolutely horrified for thinking this, as I know so many bloggers, including my dear friend Lumi, were completely eviscerated when they had to return to work after their piss poor excuses for maternity leave. Me, not so much. I had grand visions of what my time off would be like. Days would be filled with me bonding with P., playing with her, and just spending time loving and relishing her. Instead every day is a jittery day in which I pray she will only cry for 2 hours instead of 5. I'm not enjoying motherhood, not at all.
I've essentially stopped reading the blogs of women who gave birth around the same time as I did. Every single one is filled with adoration and ruminations on how much the mothers love the time they spend with their babies. As much as I am pleased for them, it is far too painful for me to realise that I am of a minority. I feel like an infertile reading the endless tales of women who got pregnant easily. Now I am the outsider again because I have a baby but I can't enjoy her. It seems like yet again other people have it so easily, i.e., what is to happen naturally happened for them and here I am with it all falling apart. Again.
I don't know what to do. Sometimes, well, most times recently, I just want to walk out the door and not come back. I feel guilty even committing these feelings to words, because in doing so it's all so much more real. I am at a dead end.