Some days are fine. Hell, some weeks are fine. And then there are days like today where I start crying and I don’t know why and I don’t know how to stop.
I love my baby. We wanted him. I wanted him. I still do. But I hate myself because I find looking after him, day after day, so hard. The days when we have things to do, places to go, those days aren’t too bad. But when we’re at home, and it’s just me and him, I count down the minutes until it’s nap time again, or bed time. And Toby isn’t even any trouble. He’s such a good boy. He hardly cries, he goes to sleep on his own whenever I put him in his cot. So why is it so god damn hard?
I’m on my own this weekend, which makes it worse. The weekend is my respite, it’s what gives me the strength to make it through another week. But this weekend my husband has gone to stay with his parents, because soon they are moving away from the town he grew up in, the house he grew up in, the place where his friends still live. And when I broke down in tears again last week he said he wouldn’t go. He said he would stay at home and help me. But I told him to go. I told him we’d be fine. I never want to be the wife whose husband isn’t allowed to go anywhere. Isn’t allowed to go out with his friends and have fun. And he needs a break too. He commutes for three hours a day to a job he doesn’t even like very much so that he can provide for us, and then at the weekends he often looks after our baby so I can have a break.
I’ve tried to talk to my husband about it. About the crying. But he wants me to explain what’s wrong so he can find a way to fix it. What’s wrong? I don’t know what’s wrong. Nothing is wrong. Everything is wrong. I’m tired. I’m sad. I miss me. I miss who I was before. I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning in the sea of responsibility. Knowing that it’s going to be years and years before I have any kind of freedom again.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to feel like this any more. I love my baby. I want to be happy and enjoy the time I spend with him. Maybe it will be better when I go back to work. But then I feel guilty for looking forward to the day when I don’t have to look after my own child all day, every day. That isn’t right. I should want to be with him. I do want to be with him. But I’m not coping. Not now. Not how it is now.
I don’t know if I should publish this. Who will it help? My husband will feel bad that he went away. That he doesn’t know how to help me. And that I’m telling the internet about my problems instead of talking to him. But I hate how he looks at me when I try and talk to him. Like I’m some fragile vase that he’s scared to break. I don’t want to be her. The woman who cries all the time. The woman who can’t look after her baby. I don’t want to be her. I want to be me again. The me I used to be was strong, and capable, and could cope with things. I don’t want to be the woman with post-natal depression.
Is that what this is? It is, isn’t it.