This poor woman at my insurance company drew the short straw and had to talk to the sobbing white lady today. Bless her heart. "Are you in danger of hurting yourself or someone else?", she asked. I chuckled to myself. I hadn't thought about it until she asked. She had to ask, she said. If I was honestly in the mindset to hurt myself or someone else, I highly doubt I would be on the phone verifying that my insurance would cover such a catastrophe. I found this amusing and was grateful for the break from crying. Oh, the crying. Not just any cry--the ugly cry. Yuck.
If I am completely honest with myself and others, which I strive to be, I must air the good and the bad. This blog is titled "Sternly Blunt" for a reason. I'm pretty good at both. I am about to bluntly talk about what's really going on. Maybe in the hopes of hearing from someone with similar experience. Maybe to encourage someone else who is going through something similar to do what I did today. I realize that I may be judged by some, and that's a risk I'm willing to take.
I'm not happy. There. I said it.
In past posts, I have joked about and tried to make fun of myself for not having a life. Which I don't. I am a social creature by nature. Riley's schedule doesn't exactly lend itself to a social life. He naps three times a day and is bed by 8:00 every night. Outside of necessary errands, that doesn't leave a whole lot of time to socialize. John travels and has a life outside this house. Morgan is a busy teenager and is never here. Which leaves me, Riley and the dog. All. The. Time.
I realize some of my dilemma is of my own making. Who implemented the schedule? Um, me. Who insisted on staying home with the baby? Um, that would be me again. Who could go back to school and put Riley in daycare if she chose to? Again, me. I don't want to do that, though. I really want to be doing exactly what I'm doing. I just want to be happier doing it.
Riley is a true joy. Really, he is. That chubby little booger is sweet, happy, hungry (all the time) and looooooves his mama. He is quite content to just sit and be with me. I could eat him up. He's also demanding, a huge time constraint, and can be rather diva-ish when he hasn't had enough rest (I have no idea where he gets that). Whew! Thus, the problem with being tethered to the house. Blech. I had heard girlfriends talk about how isolating motherhood can be, especially when caring for an infant. After vowing to not let myself become one of "those moms", I am in fact, her. That mom. I have justified, rationalized, and talked myself into a corner of woeful isolation.
I am tired of my family asking "What's wrong with you?". I am sick of my husband talking about my "tone" when I address him. He means well, but I swear if I hear, "Is there anything I can do to help?" one more time I'm gonna cut him. I'm just tired of not feeling like myself. I'm ready to feel like me again, which hasn't been the case since long before Riley was born.
Baby blues? Possibly. Hormones? Maybe. Mid-life crisis? I dunno. But I'm gonna find out. Pride and ego be damned, I called and made an appointment with a therapist today.
After telling myself for months "Tomorrow will be better; it'll be different", maybe this time it really will.
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