These past few days, I have been feeling what can only be described as ’emotionally delicate’. My equanimity of the past few weeks has abandoned me (I sincerely hope only temporarily) and I feel deflated, depressed and battered.
Where did all of the clouds come from so quickly?
I suspect it started with my best friend’s announcement of the birth of her first child last week. I am still thrilled for them, and am genuinely happy that she has a beautiful baby girl. I am also thrilled that I finished the quilt on time. But, – and there is always a but, isn’t there? – I could not shake this feeling that she has embarked on a journey that so far, I cannot follow.
She is a mother. And I am not. And this hurts more than I want to admit to you and to myself. I have this profound sense of loss, as if I am re-experiencing my miscarriages all over again, whenever I think of it.
Why does this hurt and hurt so badly? Surprisingly, it is not the Green Envy Monster at all. It is just this deep seated ache, right behind my breastbone, dull and constantly throbbing just under the surface. There is also a little bit of shame mixed in, as if I feel like I have to explain why my body hasn’t been able to do this one little thing so far. And the memories of all of the hopes that we had when I was pregnant for the first time. There is the crushing uncertainty of whether we will have that happy moment of carpet bombing our friends and family with pictures of what our love (and untold riches) created. They have all come rushing back – welling up into tears in my eyes and that familiar tweak in my nose just before I sneeze.
The result has been the usual depression – as if my body feels twice its normal weight and I’m being dragged down by gravity, but also copious amounts of tears shed over things that while sad are not really worthy of copious amounts of tears (case in point: I finished the biography of Marie Antoinette and was unconsolable at what she went through at the end). There is also the pressure, as if my head was in a vice, maybe from all of these feelings swirling around in there just trying to get out.
In short, I am a mess. I am a walking Cymbalta ad. I would like nothing better than lie in bed and stare at the wall, but, I don’t. I have work to do, deadlines to meet, people to service. My mom is here and I can’t bear the thought of ruining her visit with my depression.
I just can’t seem to get past this myopia of each minute ticking past that I don’t have a warm infant in my arms or a baby in my belly. And, right now, short of overdosing on kittens, I don’t know how I’m going to get out of it. All I can see is what I don’t have.
But, I will find a way. I always do. Most likely it will be a good cry and some careful sharing with Sweetie. I will also investigate whether my thyroid is somehow involved – my metabolism has been all over the place recently.
What do you, Dr. Reader, suggest I do to get out of this funk?