So, for now at least, this is the “old” blog, and the “new” one can be found at http://butterflywings.twocockatoos.info/

In all honesty, when Lauren at My Postpartum Voice brought it to my attention that you needed some support this week, I didn’t really know what to do. I knew I wanted to help, and I wanted to contribute something, but I didn’t really know how.

I haven’t known you that long.
I don’t know you that well.
I miss a lot that happens on Twitter, since I’m on the other side of the world, I don’t always get a chance to sign in or catch up, and you all seem to have the best conversations while I’m not there.
I’m hopeless at keeping up with everybody’s blogs, including my own.

However, I know that you’re loved.
I know that you’re struggling with that anniversary.
I know that you’re on a completely different path than you were a year ago.
I know that you’re strong, and can keep going through the hard stuff.

Anniversaries of bad days are hard. I know. I have many of those, and one in particular. They are harsh reminders of harsh times in our lives. They can make us anxious, and fearful, and tearful.

And they can be measuring sticks, showing us that this anniversary is different from that day, that a photo of today will look different than a photo of that day. I’m hoping that, one day, on this anniversary, you will be able to look at this date and be proud of your progress on your journey, and glad that you took such brave steps towards your recovery.

Potential trigger warning:
If you are suffering from depression or anxiety, or feeling emotionally fragile, please consider not reading this post.

Edit: I’m not doing too badly right now. I’m certainly not considering drastic measures at this time. The reason for this post is that, since the previous one, I’ve been thinking about what I wrote. I know I already think a lot (too much), but realising that I was capable of embracing that thought, even for a moment, scared me, and it’s been weighing on my mind. I started thinking about the things that usually make me not embrace it, and realised that, in the wrong moment, the difference between a yes and a no could be so very small. Maybe knowing this list is here will help me some other time. Maybe it could help somebody else remember there’s a reason to keep going.

Sometimes, there’s only one thing that stops me from letting The Thought take over.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the fact that I am Catholic, and Catholics “don’t do that”.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the fear of it hurting too much, or for too long.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the idea that I would mess it up and end up even more of a burden than I already am.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the dread of what comes after, what happens to those who decide that it’s the only answer.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the finality, the eternity, the irreversibility.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the thought of what people would say about me.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the awareness of how people would look at my husband and children.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the knowledge that somebody else would be left to clean up the mess.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the consciousness that there would be mess.

Sometimes, the only thing that stops me is the realisation that one of them would have to find me.

Sometimes, one thing is enough.

Potential trigger warning:
If you are suffering from depression or anxiety, or feeling emotionally fragile, please consider not reading this post.

Tonight, I entertained The Thought. I flirted with The Idea.

It danced around my brain, revelling in the freedom that came from my momentary lack of resistance.

It slid down into my mouth, and rolled off my tongue.

I think it scared him. He wanted to know why. Why would I ask? Why would I even want to think about it?

My eyes would not meet his. He tried to make them, to force me to face him.

I had no answer. No reply. No reason.

And then: “I’m no good for anything else”.

Like the world would be better off without me.
Without my faulty brain.
Without the stupid thoughts that make me take too long to do normal things that normal people do easily, take for granted.
Without the anxious, never-ending handwashing that frustrates and upsets my family.
Without the panic attacks that make my children roll their eyes and sigh loudly.
Without the agoraphobia that hinders social interaction and forces somebody else to do the shopping.
Without my influence, my example, my tears, my fears.

His reaction brought me back.

I reminded myself that my brain does not “do” that kind of thought, no matter how worthless I feel. My fear of what would happen next always overrides any fantasies of relief and release.

Thinking about what people would say about me, how they would look at my husband and children.

How my children would remember me.

No, I don’t “do” that thought. I apologise, I put myself down, I wallow; but I do not seriously consider “that”.

But tonight, for a moment, I did. I flipped The Thought over in my mind, examined it, spat it out into existence.

I’m not OK yet.

No, I didn’t put the smelly laundry back in to wash it again.
But I did think about it. And I felt terribly guilty about it.
Maybe my back will be less painful tomorrow.

No, I didn’t put on another load of laundry.
But I did tidy the piles so I could see the washing machine better.
See, there’s a floor there. And there’s still some smelly stuff to rewash.

No, I didn’t get the kid to school on time.
But I did get him there — and I did remember to pick him up.
We were only a little bit late.

No, I didn’t spend a decent amount of time outside in the sun.
But I did spend a few minutes walking around the car after we got home again.
Apparently, I didn’t hit anything (or anybody).

No, I didn’t clear the desk.
But I did pay the bills.
They were only a little bit late.

No, I didn’t finish getting dinner ready before you arrived home.
But I did keep a baby alive all day with just my breastmilk.
Maybe you could wash the salad leaves for me?

No, I didn’t finish washing up all the dishes.
But I did get through glasses and cutlery before baby yelled at me.
See how shiny they are?

I apologise for naming every second week “Dear Uterus, Please Shrivel Up and Fall Out” (DUPSUFO) Week.

I do appreciate the good things about you:

• you can grow babies: I know many women would envy my undeserving self;
• on that note, you have grown big, beautiful, healthy babies: no NICU stays, no emergency surgery;
• you have, with a bit of help from your neighbours, birthed babies without any need for interventions; and
• you do a pretty good job of getting back to normal after birth.

However, I feel robbed. I tend to resent you. I know I have no right, but I feel like the only times we get along are when we’re growing or birthing a baby together. As soon as baby is out, we fight.

Let’s face it, you cry. A lot. Bloody tears. Sometimes big hysterical blubbering purges; sometimes lighter, quietly sobbing sighs. I accept the first six weeks post birth. I do. I accept that you’re “spring cleaning”; that you like things tidy; that you have to be ready for another guest, just in case. Nobody likes sleeping in an unchanged bed left by somebody else. But seriously, how often do you really need to do that? And couldn’t we take a year or so off? Other uteri do. I’ve heard of uteri that enjoy the vacation so much that their hosts have to wean their babies to send the message that they want the factory reopened. Can you imagine?

It doesn’t matter how much I feed my baby, or sleep next to them, or carry them; you act like it doesn’t matter. I know it does though, because we also don’t go back to “normal”: we either have long, unpredictable gaps between crying fits, or you have one every second week. Like now. The only redeeming thing about this is that it’s milder and shorter than when you keep things bottled up for ages. However, I dare not hope that mild is the new normal. I feel like I’m being lulled into a false sense of security.

I don’t blame you. Not really. I know there’s something wrong with me. My hormones are out of balance. My vitamins and minerals need more work. I know that what’s going on in my head and upsetting me is probably caused by the same thing as what’s upsetting you. I don’t like feeling this way while I’m supposed to be enjoying my baby. Ironically, blood is a huge OCD trigger for me. So having you act this way, especially during this first year, especially when I’m experiencing postnatal OCD, and one of the worst bouts of any OCD I have ever had… it hurts. It’s hurting me; it’s upsetting my family.

It doesn’t seem fair. I actually find myself envying men, wishing for a hysterectomy, or just wanting to die.

I don’t really want you to shrivel up and fall out. I’m sure that would make me freak out too. And I’m pretty sure this is just your way of helping clean the rest of my “house”. If you weren’t doing that, some other part of me would probably try to detox in some other disgusting way and I would regret every DUPSUFO week, or day, I ever declared.

But please can we try some other way? Or at least could you give me a chance to show you I’m trying to change? I really need more time between “episodes”. The skin on my hands — not to mention my water bill — will surely thank you.

Love,
me

Should blog.
Should work on the new blog.
Should stop deluding myself that I have anything worth saying.

Should check email.
Should check twitter.
Should check facebook.
Should unplug.

Should exercise.
Should rest.

Should return those calls.
Should turn off the phone.

Should do laundry.
Should get the already-wet washing dry.

Should clean the kitchen.
Should organise dinner.

Should get those thank you notes written (baby gifts).
Should figure out how to celebrate baby’s first birthday.

Should think of everything.
Should stop thinking so much.

Should.
Should stop saying “should”.