So a-p-p-a-r-e-n-t-l-y there are ‘stages’ in the downward spiral that is postpartum depression. I am sad to say I am still stuck in the third stage.
Stages of Postpartum Depression are as follows:
1.) Denial (nope, not me!)
2.) Anger (kick rocks, you!)
3.) Bargaining (rock,paper,scissors…loser gets my brain)
4.) Depression (life is like a box a poop, as it all stinks)
5.) Acceptance (of what…a case of the crazies??)
(I know I can’t possibly be alone when I think to myself ‘seriously!’… Because I feel those things, all of them, like a broken revolving door that just won’t stop spinning. Or maybe like a dryer stuck spinning, as the linens get hotter and hotter – until they begin to melt, the alarm sounds and the Sears guy comes to take it far away, to the appliance graveyard.)
Trying to gamble my way off of this ferris wheel of gloom, doom and exhausting/sleepless nights I have come to the following conclusions-
*There’s no place like home/can I install an escape catch please?
*I need to spend quality time with my kids/is it acceptable to spend all our money on a babysitter for the foreseeable future?
*There is a desire to be held by my husband/but can’t it wait? I’m exhausted…
*I should try to focus on caring for myself/why is it a bad thing that I wore the same pajamas for three sleepless nights/days?
*For my families sake I need to get over this so I can care for them/can’t I just sit here and watch them fumble through it without me?
*Maybe tonight I’ll cook a nice sit down meal and we can all be together/one more night of frozen pizza while I just sit here like a piece of petrified wood won’t hurt them will it?
So yes, I’m bargaining with my daily to-do list and how to get out of this without getting help for this from reliable and trusting professionals. Here’s why –
Because I’m stuck at stage three, and all the while I’m filled with with anger that I can’t just get over this.
Because I’m so sad it feels like I’ve been drowning in my own tears and that makes me depressed.
Because I have hormone imbalances I’m a fricking burn pit filled with all but the acceptance – just smoldering away, waiting for SOMEONE ELSE to come along and either pour gasoline on me or douse me with water.
Because I really am struggling with this mental illness and my own husband doesn’t get it, won’t listen, can’t help, but probably would if he could just UNDERSTAND that I’m scared, and absolutely need him, and that I can’t do this alone. I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’m not four years old. I’m hurting. I can’t change it, can’t stop it….
I’m going to be okay right? Yes, in time. But in the mean time, I don’t feel like it just now. I want a get-out-of-this-prison-for-free card and a stamp on my forehead that says ‘cured’ so that when I look into my own badly broken mirror the reflection will look it even if I don’t feel it.