But I know you will not mind. (No TMI, I promise!)
I think I may have some PPD.
I've had a great weekend. The music was fun, mostly (don't get me started on my altercation with the lady who works there-- okay, not altercation, that's too strong a word, but I was not happy with our interaction), despite the hotel experience (they told us they'd have a crib and then they didn't; we hadn't brought the port-a-crib after being told they'd have one; Bridey didn't sleep until almost 5 AM-- it was La Quinta Costa Mesa, if you want to know), we had fun at IKEA and a good time at the wedding (though Emma freaked out at the sparklers-- which are illegal, BTW, which I was rather surprised no one seemed to know about, and we were RIGHT across the street from a state park, during fire season), a new nursing dress I bought on eBay was waiting for me when we got home, it was all around a fun few days. But I've been snappish, sad, yelling, crying, when we were driving home I had this crazy urge in the tunnel to just open the door and roll out into traffic. It was kind of scary. Jeff took Maggie to burp her while I was asleep and I woke up in a panic because she was gone. I am extremely anxious when separated from her (though I'm getting better about letting others hold her and not holding her ALL the time.)
Please don't suggest drugs. I'm not going to take them. Please don't suggest counselling either. I don't trust therapists. Both these issues stem from my experience with medication and therapists as a teen, which I don't want to talk about, but I may share privately if you ever really have to know. Suffice it to say, it's not going to happen. It's like my thing with female doctors. Just not going to happen. (Not that I could afford it if I wanted it, with no insurance. But since I don't, it's moot.)
I was like this when I was pregnant with Emma. I got over it as the hormones changed. It never happened with Bridey, at least not that I remember; okay, maybe a few days when she was a few months old. That was it. But this started when I was separated from Maggie and has persisted since then. It doesn't help that my hormones aren't back to normal yet. I've got a good few months to go, judging by past experience.
If you are a praying person, I'd love your prayers. I feel detatched and isolated even as I'm more involved than I've ever been in a host of things. Life goes by so fast and I sometimes just feel like it's passing me by. I hate this. I hope it passes soon.
And I don't know why I'm even writing this. I just am. And it doesn't help. Prayer helps while I'm praying, and for a little while afterward, but not all day. And I feel so tired I don't even want to pray. Ditto everything else that usually makes me feel better. I'm stress eating, which just makes things worse. I should probably watch that. But I don't even care.
I want to escape. I just want to go watch the waves roll into nothing and then sleep and not listen to any whining and screaming and just sleep.
I guess I sound pretty depressed, huh? Sorry. Didn't mean to bring you all down...
I really do have fun. This weekend was fun, lots of it. Next Saturday we're having a poop party because Emma finally pooped in the toilet three times in a row with no accidents. (Who's coming? My mom. Who else? No one, because all she wants is my mom and a pinata, go figure. Well, that's fine, makes things easy...) Everything is fun. But the fun never lasts, and in between I'm just... bleh.
I want to sleep now. I'm tired. But I can't sleep and probably won't. Again. Oh, well. That's okay. It's not like I have anything to do tomorrow...