February 20, 2016, 5:49 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I added a new medication to my routine last week. I am titrating up to my full dose during a week long process which means I am doing SCIENCE IN MY BODY. It also means that my moods have not been as stable as they hopefully will be once I have leveled off at my target dosage.

Which is fun for everyone around me, naturally.

I think I’ve been handling my work situation “Okay”…but once I hit home I fall apart. I’m moody, snappy, weepy, –all cousins of the original 7 dwarfs–and just not great to be around, I’m sure.

My ability to be a good mother has been shipwrecked and I find myself with no patience or understanding of what my Tiny Human is doing at any given time. Why aren’t you eating the broccoli you specifically requested? Why are you still messing with the dog when I told you she was trying to sleep? Why OH GOD WHY does it take you 58 minutes to walk down the stairs and get your shoes on in the morning for school?

I understand that these are normal gripes for any mother, but with my unstable condition the last week, they have become issues that will literally put me in a fowl mood for the entire day. There has been no gentle correction from my parenting side; simply shouting and storming away.

Not fantastic.

My husband does his best to pick up the pieces afterwards. I feel that he does this a lot for me. When I am deep in my rage I encouraged him to leave me, to take our child, to leave me alone to self implode. I usually end up feeling like a tumor for our family.

It’s then, in those dark moments, when I think “Oh I haven’t blogged yet this week” when I realize that I don’t really have any right to write about what I do here, or over at Postpartum Progress. I may be able to articulate my struggle and the struggle of others, but deep down I am still just a mess.

But hey, here’s what I want you all to know. Once I surface from those dark periods and reexamine my intentions as a writer, I think the mess is what helps with the words. When I write, there is true, raw emotion behind it. If I am feeling like crap, I will often willingly admit that.

I never want to come across as preachy or above what I am going through. I battle every day to feel at least normal, if not happy. There is no glory to be had in that struggle and I write about it because I want you to know that if you are feeling even a little bit the same, that it is okay. There may not be a light at the end of the tunnel, but the waters will recede sometimes and you can stand on solid ground again, until the next wave  hits you.

It is a safe place, for me, to admit that I am failing as a wife and a mother this week. That I yell and scream awful things that–even as I am saying them–I realize aren’t me.

It is a place to talk about how much I hate medications, how much I am hopeful about medications, how much I fear medications.

It is a place to be myself, since I seem to get emotionally constipated when asked about it in person. Therapy didn’t take. Blogging did.

So blogging it is.


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