The D Word

My first therapy appointment was Friday.  I had all but talked myself out of the need for it.  It's amazing how self-sabotaging my psyche can be sometimes.  I relunctantly went, filled out all the necessary forms, and waited in the lobby pretending to read a book.  I felt like I was being called in to the Principal's office. 

We made our necessary introductions and I dove right in:  I confessed that I wasn't happy.  I recounted the events over the last year and a half.  All the changes in employment, relationship status, new mommy stuff.  Everything.  I tearfully told her that I was rarely in a good mood, couldn't sleep if my life depended upon it, and that I was irritable.  Always irritable.

She listened and punctuated my ramblings with suggestions and observations.  "It sounds like you're lonely.", she offered.  Lonely?  Huh?  I opened my mouth to argue the point, only to be flooded with the realization that I was, in fact, lonely.  Ugh.  I hate that word.  I have prided myself in being strong-willed and independent.  I didn't need anyone.  Ha!  What a joke . . . .

It was in that moment I had the revelation that my relationship with Riley had become extremely disproportionate.  I need him a lot more than he needs me.  Seeing as how he is seven months old and dependent upon me for everything, that's saying something.  He is the one thing in my life that is a constant source of joy.  He is my sunshine on the cloudiest of days.  He is also entirely too young to shoulder such a responsibility.  I have given my sweet baby boy the impossible task of my happiness.  My poor baby.

At the end of our session, she gave me a to-do list of things that must be accomplished before our next meeting.  I must get out of the house with a girlfriend.  I must call my in-laws to watch the baby so I can get out next week.  I must at least get my feet wet with the playgroup I just joined.  I nodded my head in agreement, though I was filled with dread inside.  New stuff.  Change.  Hadn't I had enough of that? 

Then she said it.  It was her opinion that I was depressed.  Yuck.  Just thinking of that word being used to describe me gets me all teary.  It's just so  . . . . . well, depressing.  What the hell, man?  Wasn't this supposed to be the prime of my life?  Wasn't I supposed to be filled with happiness, seeing as how I have a new bundle of joy who I am head-over-heels in love with?  What the hell is wrong with me? 

Balance.  That's what's wrong with me.  Or more specifically, lack of balance.  As of late, balance seems to be that fleeting moment that occurs as the pendulum is swinging from one extreme to the other. 

I did like I was told.  I was gone yesterday for an unprecedented four and a half hours.  It almost didn't happen.  Riley had an unexpected doctor's appointment yesterday morning and I almost cancelled my date.  His father is more than capable, I told myself.  Detach.  Baby steps.  One foot in front of the other.  I went with a girlfriend for coffee, pedis, and lunch while his father handled the appointment. Beautifully, I might add.
 

Boy, were my friend and I a sight to behold.  She just sent her only daughter to college, and I am unhealthily attached to my baby.  What a pair!  It was nice to be out and about and have some real conversation with someone who can empathize.  And it will happen again.  Soon.

I have scheduled the grandparents to come over and watch Riley so I can get out of the house one afternoon next week.  "What did you used to do for you before Riley was born?", my therapist asked.  She may as well have been asking me to explain quantum physics.  I honestly couldn't remember.  I am going to use that time next week to see if I can't piece together something that resembles me-time. 

Though wobbly, I am trying to find my identity outside of these walls.  I am looking for the me before I was "John's wife" or "Riley's mom".

Wish me luck.

Dirty Laundry

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.