Here, There, and Everywhere
10:55 a.m. - 2007-08-16
I don't know why I haven't been writing. Just...nothing feels right.
I could tell you how Ali's talking in full sentences now, sentences that range from, "I can't shut door" and "I can't reach light" ("the" is obviously not an important article in her mind) to "I want an apple" and "I need to swing." She's completely understandable about 90% of the time to me, and probably about 80% of the time to other people. It's amazing, watching my baby turn into her own little person with real thoughts and feelings and expressions and being able to put those things into words. I feel so lucky and so blessed.
Or I could tell you about her near-OCD fascination with washing her hands, shutting the doors, and turning off lights. I know when she gets up in the morning, not just by the pitter-patter of little feet, but by the sound of the bathroom door being forcefully closed. Then she stumbles bleary-eyed into the kitchen and tries to pull the bedroom door closed behind her, always ending the action with, "I can't shut door. I. Can't. SHUT. DOOR!" We traipse to the bathroom approximately eleventy billion times a day for "I have to hand wash."
If I forget to keep the bathroom closed, I find her hanging half on, half off the sink, fat little legs dangling in mid-air, hands under the running faucet, grunting at the discomfort of the situation but obviously entirely pleased with her feat of acrobatics and good hygiene.
Or I could tell you about how I broke down in sobs on the doctor's table yesterday. But I don't really WANT to tell you about that. Because that would mean that I have to admit the dark place I seem to have fallen into, the place that I can't seem to get out of, the place that no one with a beautiful daughter and another on the way should be in, because what kind of selfish, ungrateful soul could be depressed with so many things to be happy about?
But I am in that place, and it's not fun. It's kind of scary, and I KNOW that I have to pull myself up by the bootstraps and drag myself out of it. Because regardless of what the doctor says, I'm NOT going to take Prozac while I'm pregnant, no matter how much she seems to think I need it. I know myself, and I know that while the current situation is bad, it's not awful, and while it would probably be helpful to have medication for it, I don't HAVE to have it. I'm not to that point yet. If, at some point, I feel myself sliding further into that headspace, I'll absolutely seek help. But I'm not willing to take the chance of harming my baby yet.
I also know that I'll absolutely have to start anti-depressants after this baby is born, and that the PPD may very well be even worse than it was last time. And I'm okay with that. I have no problem taking medicine (though I don't want Zoloft, we'll have to try something different this time) for this problem. For the longest time I convinced myself that it was just a temporary setback, that it was something I'd grow out of, but now I know that's not the case. I'll very likely be on some sort of medication for this the rest of my life, and that's just something I'll have to deal with. Because the alternative isn't an option. Feeling the way I feel now isn't an option. Cutting myself off from friends and family and holing up in my house and having panic attacks and yelling at my husband and feeling overwhelmed by my kids all the time isn't an option. It just isn't.
So, if you've wondered where I've been, now you know. I'm sorry, and I'm trying to get better. Really, I'm trying.