And We Won’t Spit With Our Mouths Or Draw Lines In The Dirt With Our Heels And Every Single Day We’ll Just Wait And Hope To See The Next One

I went a little crazy after Grady was born.

At first I felt like a goddamn warrior for birthing my 8lb 6.5oz baby without an epidural. I was on a new baby high for days. I felt like I could do anything. 

The nurses told me to expect to feel a little "blue" and after a few days I did start to feel weepy and low. It didn't get better, though, the way they told me it would. The sadness didn't go away. The anxiety didn't abate. 

Looking back, I can see how certain situations contributed to my crazy (Shawn got a grand total of 4 days off work after Grady was born; Wolfgang got very sick when Grady was 12 days old and for a week we didn't know if he was going to pull through; my maternity leave application was held up with no explanation and Wolfgang's unexpected $1,000 vet bill put a serious dent in our bank account; after a mild summer, we had two weeks of hot temperatures which, combined with the hormones, made me a literal hot mess) but at the time I couldn't identify and deal with them individually, it just felt like one thing after another piling on top of an already unmanageable situation (because newborns? Refuse to be managed. Grady has earned his nickname of Little Tyrant.)

I tried to convince myself that what I was feeling was normal. That the anxiety that prevented me from leaving my bedroom for days, the crying that left me red-faced and gulping for air on the bathroom floor, and the guilt that I was somehow harming my baby by being such a failure, were all just part of the "baby blues" that the nurses had warned me about. And for a while I succeeded. Shawn would come home from work day after day to find me huddled in the dark, rocking Grady and crying, and he would ask me if we needed to call the doctor. I would get very shrill and tell him that this was normal and nothing was wrong with me and why wasn't he on my team (my crazy makes me manipulative. I'm not proud.)

The thing is, even though part of me knew that what I was feeling wasn't normal, the other (crazy) part of me was convinced that I didn't need help. The nurses in the hospital and the pamphlet sent home with me made me think that unless I was about to hurt myself or someone else, I didn't need help. Which isn't logical. I know that now. But in the throes of my crazy, I was able to convince myself that as long as I wasn't suicidal, I was okay and what I was experiencing was normal and fine. I didn't want to be the lady who couldn't handle having a baby. I was ashamed that my anxiety was dictating my life (and Grady's life.) I was locked in this horrible spiral of "what if" thinking (what if I drop the baby? what if I go to the grocery store and someone steals the baby? what if I'm driving and someone hits me and the baby?) and I didn't know how to stop it but I was too scared to ask for help (what if I tell my doctor and they take away my baby?)

Three weeks ago I went for my followup appointment with the doctor who delivered Grady. Before starting the exam, she sat down and asked how I was doing. And then she sat with me for the next hour while I cried and admitted to every single destructive thought I'd had over the past seven weeks. Instead of doing my physical exam, my rockstar doctor came up with a plan and gently but firmly told me what I was going to do. It was exactly what I needed. I needed someone to say "this isn't normal and this is what you are going to do to fix it."

I've been working to fix myself for three weeks. I have a plan and I have support. For the first time since Grady was born, I feel like I'm seeing things clearly. I'm not there yet - I don't feel like me - but I'm on my way.

I'm so glad because I get to enjoy this guy even more.