Some days I feel like there is no point in ever hoping to be anything. Like choosing to me a mother means that I don’t get to have anything else. The universe is allowing me to have Sam (and Otter), and I am also allowed to cook and knit and make various other things, but those homey, domestic pursuits are All I Get.
I know. What a fun, fatalistic way to feel!
Now imagine feeling that way and having someone say something that makes you feel even more worthless! And then, imagine that you are talking to that person (who really, truly didn’t mean to hurt your feelings), and imagine that your uterus chooses that exact moment to crush your diaphragm so you cannot breathe. And you’re crying and the baby is stretching and you can’t breathe and you just want to feel like you are important.
(AND you don’t get a single comment on your blog for twelve hours after you write what you thought was a pretty good post. Because this is a good time to not be getting validation.)
When I was pregnant with Sam, I was an emotional wreck most of the time. I blame several factors (giving up smoking and going off the pill shortly before becoming pregnant are both biggies), none of which are present this time. And hey, what do you know! I have been doing really well this whole time. Until yesterday, when I completely fell apart.
I don’t want to be depressed. I don’t want there to be something wrong with me. Even if it is temporary and hormonal and it will pass. I don’t want it at all, because I don’t do well with despair. So I grasp at straws for some explanation for my lows yesterday. I was on Day 8 of parenting solo. And I barely ate any protein, which might sound like the lamest of the lame possible explanations, but since I’m pregnant it really could have some effect on things.
But if that’s not it? Well, I think I have to give up. If no one believes in me, I don’t believe in me. I don’t care if that’s stupid. It’s true.
So, you know. That’s where I’m at.