Scratch that.

I write you notes.

I try to explain  the best I can.

I print website information.

I say just a hug. Or a kind word will help me.

I beg for a hug. I beg for love.

I get this…

I don’t understand you.

I don’t know what to do.

I didn’t KNOW this was one of those post partum freak outs.

I didn’t think what you were freaking over was a big deal.

I get a hug. A one armed pat on the back. I feel like it’s a pity hug. Like your thinking how many better things you could be doing besides that.

I beg for kind words. I know you aren’t one for love notes and mush. I’m not asking for a novel. Maybe just some empathy. Like you hold my face and look me in the eyes. THAT. would be helpful. To SEE that you SEE me.

Look at me so I feel like I’m not the invisible mom slave that gets NOTHING accomplished, but spends ALL day doing things.

I think I’m better.

I am.

Better then I was. But not better yet.

Still need help. Want to call. Email. Someone?

I don’t want medicine. I just want to ramble and it to make sense.

I want someone to listen to my ramble. LISTEN to it.

To make time to talk to me again. Once upon a time we talked. For hours. You were a sponge who wanted to know about me.

You work. A lot. I work. A lot. Your tired. I just want adult conversation.

 

You don’t have to understand me. I sure as hell don’t.

You do have to try and help me right? We promised.

You promised me.

In sickness and in health.

I am sick. In the head.

I don’t want Bagel to tell me I’m an angry mommy. Or I’m the sad mommy.

That kills me.

The whining ALL. DAY.

The Iwant, Iwant, Iwant, Iwant, Iwant. ALL. DAY.

The crying, hitting, teasing, I’m hungry, I’m NOT EATING THAT. The screaming. The fits, the anger, the NO sleeping in bed… it. all. makes me crazy. Makes me shake my head. Close my eyes. Cry.

I TRY to not yell. I try to not cry. I DO SO well. I can stop myself all the time. But there are times… I can’t. It’s too much.

Really it’s not from an outsiders point of view, but from my point of view… it’s a mountain of stress, anxiety, and finally a break down.

I am in love with these two 25/8. There is NO minute of the day that I don’t cherish and adore every hair on their heads.

BUT. They mentally exhaust me. Your tired, you work. All the time. Your free time I try to leave you sleep, or watch ESPN… when is my free time?

When they ‘nap’? Because I have to do house work. When they are in bed? FINALLY at 930? By then I’m exhausted and want to sleep. When they are over night some where? Sure, right after the house work…

I get to crop. Once every 3 months. Me time. Do you know what I do? I scrapbook you. The kids. The pets.

My life is you. And them. But sometimes they make me upset. Or maybe the sun does. The wind? Bad hair? Simple things that just might annoy one person, can set me off. I need a few minutes to collect myself.

To remind myself to get better. To not be nutso. To breathe.

THIS. Is my job. But my job has made me sick in the head.

I need help.

I won’t hurt them. Or me. I worship them, and I am a sissy with pain myself. You know that is never an issue.

I WANT to get better. I want to not be the angry or sad mommy.

But more then anything. I want you to love me again. You don’t talk but I see in your eyes. You give me a look that I annoy you. That makes me feel ugly.

Your tone sounds like I’m a pest. Dramatic. And even though tonight you said something. Then said to scratch it. The words stay.

childish.

I’m sorry I’m sick.

I’m sorry I seem to always start something when your leaving for work.

I’m sorry I’m sick.

I get so upset I sob. Then I get a headache. Then I don’t want to do laundry. Then I don’t want to do dishes. My arm goes numb. Sigh.

Then the kids scream, they whine, the dogs bark. I shake my head. Shake it fast. Maybe it will all stop. I can’t do it. I need a minute. Better then a year ago. I would need 20 minutes.

I yell. At the dogs.

I sit on the laptop to escape. To find help. To relate to others.

Who can help me? You? I don’t want to talk about it.

I want to talk about it. When it’s a good day. NOT on a bad day.

I used to be happy. I never understood anxiety. I never understood depression.

I never thought Post Partum Depression would effect a person who grew up with the nick names “Smiley” or “Happy”

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is what it is now. Bagel is 4 1/2 and Weaky is 2 and 8 months. So I don’t think it’s PPD, but now a PTSD.

Some one fix me.

…

…

…

please…

Feisty.