True to my procrastinating nature, it’s taken over four months for my postpartum funk to really come into its own. It is the late-blooming, ugly duckling of baby blues. Good job, beautiful, graceful, dramatic depression swan! I tried to bring you on early by cutting my own bangs, but you were steadfast, and waited until just the right time to resume your awful post inside my head once more!
You guys. Here’s what’s sometimes up in the months following childbirth, plus add in a regular crazy factor of about an 8 (full disclosure):
My entire brain feels buzzy and waterlogged. My legs and arms feel like lead. My face tingles and my skin crawls. I am experiencing a horrific forgetfulness that probably borders on amnesia or dementia or maybe both and it’s not pretty. I can’t sleep when I have the time and I can’t stay awake when I don’t.
I’m kicking ash on my diet but what I really want is a raspberry donut and a beer or eleven.
I can go from Downton Abbey to Walking Dead in 0.7 seconds flat. One moment I’m just a little spoonful of sugar, and the next I’m an industrial-strength, anti-social rage machine. My poor husband never knows what he’s gonna get, but I’m far from a box of chocolates. Here was my morning:
(6:48 a.m., our kitchen)
Caleb: “Did you wake the kids up yet?”
Me: (with feeling) “WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIVORCE ME ALREADY AND FIND ANOTHER WIFE WHO IS NOT ME?!!”
Caleb: (quietly and through clenched teeth) “I was just asking a question.”
Me: (in tears) “You had a tone!”
Caleb: (gnashes teeth, tears clothing, sets himself on fire) “The tone is all in your head.”
Me: (grabs scissors, cuts bangs, looks stupid, makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches) “I can’t even talk to you! You just don’t understand! Oh I’m so sorry! I’m sorry I was mean! Please forgive me!”
And then it de-escalated. We woke up the kids, made oatmeal, and went about our day like nothing happened. Because nothing did happen. Except for me straight trippin’.
I’m having more authority issues than usual. I can’t even listen to a couch-to-5k app–that I downloaded–because the lady on it says “Get running.”
Me: “Screw you, phone, you can’t tell me what to do!”
phone: “I said ‘begin running’, not ‘get running’, you twit.”
Me: “Oh. Well. You’re still not the boss of me.”
If you see me in public, chances are I’ll appear charming and put-together; look closely and my right eye will be twitching uncontrollably, because holy sensory overload. I am convinced that breastfeeding drags out the hormone scramble of pregnancy. My head looks to be jacked up until September.
And now, because I got 99 problems, and sleep deprivation is approximately 80 of them, I bid you good night and leave me alone. I’m gearing up to take some thoughts captive tomorrow. Love to you all.