In a little over a month, the boy that has brought joy, chaos and meaning beyond all comprehension to my life will turn two years old. And also to my husband’s life too, but hey, this is my blog :)
I’m not entirely sure how that happened to be honest. I can remember so many things about the time I was pregnant so clearly, let alone the first week he was here and we were in the hospital together. Muddling through holding him over the first 24 hours with a drip in my hand, the transposed shoulder pain from the c-section making me scream in pain, far more pain than I ever felt from the operation site. I remember (still) the most romantic thing that Hubs ever did by helping me have a shower, when I was as weak as a kitten the day after Peanut was born, like it was yesterday.
I look at the images I’ve got of us in my mind, and in his photo album, and in the hundreds of photos on the computer. The perfect latch he had from day one; the explosive nappies; the joy he felt, still feels in water; and I look at this boy now, with his fringe trimmed too close (that’s another blog), babbling away to us, making sentences, asking questions. Telling us that whatever we’re holding or using is ‘Mine!’, but beginning to recognise that some things he won’t get, no matter how many times he asks.
I watch him sitting at the table with us for meals, asking for ‘More please’ and wonder anew that this perfect little boy was created, out of a million and one chances, that my body made him, carried him, and all I had to do was sit there and watch it happen. Watch my stomach as he charged around inside of me, and now he’s out, becoming more and more independent, I am sitting back and watching him again, run around the house shrieking with joy and laughter, but also running up and demanding ‘Cuggles’. Sleeping in our bed last night, he woke up and said ‘Morning Mama’.
We hang the washing out together, whereas he used to be sat in a bouncy chair, he’s now got wellington boots on and is prowling round veggie patch making mud pies or rolling down the slope in the garden, being chased by the cat all the while. He wants to do the vacuuming, and to cook dinner ‘Ooh, hot!’, as he leans over the gate into the kitchen trying to see what we’re doing, he stands on tip-toes trying to climb into the bath every night, then runs to his bedroom knowing he’s going to get read to.
Two years. No wonder my mum freaks out that I’m nearly forty if it remains this clear in your mind!
I’ve been struggling at work. It’s no secret. I’ve been struggling to get up every day. I struggling to function through the fog in my head. I tried to speak up, to hold the truth, no matter how shaky my voice. I want to scream from the rooftops, but I can’t. My mouth, my voice is being silenced by forces stronger than I am. I know people think I’m being disruptive and a trouble maker, but I want to stop the tide of people, good people, walking out of here. But I can’t. I can’t speak any louder than I have been, I just cannot do any more. I realised that today. I realised a couple of things today. Including that, I’m sick of feeling like this.
I am enough. Just as I am. I’ve got friends who care about me here and in the UK, and I can’t keep blogging about how awful my little world is, when I’m taking active steps to improve my little world. And you know what, compared to the majority of people on this planet, what I’m worrying about is insulting to them. So I’m going to stop.
Stop thinking about my black dog and activating it, the more I think about things, the worse they become. So I’m done. I’m sick of this shit, I’m sure you are too. I’m taking medication, having counselling and working on my resilience. I can’t just shake it off, you can’t with depression, but I can at least stop triggering it.
I know one thing I’ve not missed though. Facebook. I’m revising Twitter now, either curtailing who I follow down to about 20 people, or coming off it altogether. I know that some people like my 140 character vents and missives. But are they actually helping? I’m not sure.
I’ve got something else on my chest that I shared with someone overnight, I’d like to discuss it further somewhere, but I’m not sure here is the right place. Either way, I’m happier I’ve told someone what I was doing, and while it shocked me, I knew he’d understand. And he did. He was there when I needed him, non-judgemental and accepting. Sometimes, that’s all you need. Someone to hear you. Not to offer advice, or empathy or anything. Just themselves.