12:39 p.m. - 2005-10-29
I had an entry, almost complete.
More a story than an entry, really, that told of how I discovered that pumping every couple of hours with a manual pump has given me tendonitis and carpal tunnel, and how, while at the doctor for that particular problem, I also found out that I have a "pretty severe" case of post partum depression. She put me on a hefty dosage of Zoloft and a low dose of Xanax only when I need it. She's increasing the Zoloft in two weeks, which makes me think that perhaps I am REALLY crazy, because that sounds like a hell of a lot of medication. (Both are breastfeeding compatabile according to my LLL leader and pediatrician, though the other entry was much more detailed and amusing on this particular part of the situation. Oh well.)
Now that the entire internet knows I'm a certifiable basketcase who needs to be doped up in order to function properly, I'd like to take a minute to lament the loss of the entry that Alan destroyed. I'd go so far as to say that the entry was good. Really good, maybe even one of my best ever. It was like the stuff I used to write, not the day to day bullshit that I've been putting here lately. I know that I should have saved it--and kept thinking it every time I sat down in front of the computer--but never got around to it. It's all I can do to squeeze out a few sentences before the baby starts crying, or the dishwasher needs unloading, or the dryer buzzes, or the clothes need Downy added because the rinse cycle is starting. So I'll stick with the excuse that I don't have time to save every couple of paragraphs.
But it's not just deleting my entry that's irritating me about my husband. Pick one of any million annoying "male" habits, and I'd lay money on the fact that he's picked it up. Strewing clothes and shoes about the house. Leaving every room he enters in a state of chaos. Piling dishes up ON the counter that is TWO INCHES from the sink--and that's when he's thoughtful enough to not just leave them on the end table or nightstand. Letting the trash fill the can until it's overflowing, and then just stacking empties on the counter. Taking all the clothes out of the drier and just tossing them toward the laundry basket when he's looking for a shirt, and not noticing--or caring--that half of them have fallen on the floor. Besides, even wadded up Versace would eventually cool into a tacky, ugly, wrinkled rag, so either we go around looking like homeless people or I have to iron everything. Gah.
So, yeah. Depression. I wasn't even aware that I had it. I started to say, "I'm not depressed! I love my baby more than anything in the world! My house is cleaner than EVER! I'm not overeating OR drinking all day, and I haven't thought about suicide once!"
**Murder, on the other hand...
But then I realized that she was totally right. I haven't felt like myself in a while now, and it's not because I just popped out a baby. The reason that my house is so clean is because I can't seem to sit still, and while I'm not overeating, I'm really not eating at ALL.
I've lost 24 lbs. of the 32 lbs. I gained during pregnancy in two weeks (which is totally great, go me!), but it's not becausee I'm staying away from junk food.
I ate an entire pumpkin pie by myself in the last three days. I have apparently developed a deep, passionate, all-consuming love for pumpkin pie. I savor every last fattening morsel, and sometimes I really want another piece, but I won't let myself have it right then. It's embarassing when your husband says, "Oh, you cut enough for us to share! How sweet!" and you totally did Not intend to share, but have to play it off like that was your intention all along.
There's so much more to say, like how Aliana is growing and changing every day, how well she's eating, how she can burp and fart as well as any frat boy, how she's beginning to focus, can hold her head up on her own, and how I never knew I could love like this, but I have a stinky diaper to change and my breasts need to be pumped in a pretty bad way.