On Monday I posted pictures of a cake, because I didn't know how to write about what Monday felt like.
My postpartum depression is mostly under control. And by "under control" I mean that if I eat what I'm supposed to, don't eat what I'm not supposed to, exercise, take my vitamins, drink enough water, get enough sleep, manage my stress, have open and honest conversations with my husband, and attempt to remember what my hobbies and interests are, all on a daily basis, I'm basically okay. More or less.
But if just a few of those things fall away - because, you know, life gets in the way - it's way too easy for the rest to fall away, too. And then I go from feeling basically okay to thinking dark thoughts about sharp kitchen knives and hot teakettles.
My dark thoughts exist solely as thoughts, with the occasional morbid fantasy. Still, they're pretty fucking dark. Which frequently leads me to the conclusion that I'm a bad person - instead of just a person in a bad mood. False logic from the Dirty Tricks Department of the mind.
Whenever the Dirty Tricks Department of my mind is acting up, I desperately want to talk about what I'm feeling - and I do, at length. (I'm certain Rob knows more about my emotional life than he ever expected to.) For some reason, however, I find it very difficult to write about. Perhaps because the thinking is so irrational and disorganized, it doesn't lend itself well to grammar and sentence structure. Or perhaps I don't want to be depressed in public.
When I told my mother how awful I felt and how I'd been having terrible nightmares that I didn't know what to do with, she said, "Put it in your writing."
My first thought was, "Hell no. I'm not telling my blog readers that I keep dreaming about bleeding to death at wedding receptions." But one of the reasons I started this blog was to write my shit out. And I say "out" because I think coming out about whatever the thing is - whether it's sexuality, mental illness, or how you really feel about your postpartum body - is important. I value the "over-share."
So, very simply: I had a terrible mental-health day on Monday. I hated myself and I hated my child. I think I even yelled at the cat.
Mature, I know.
After apologizing (to both Westley and the kitty), working out, and eating a couple of extra-super-mega-healthy meals, I feel basically okay again. Which, when compared to the dark of Monday, looks completely brilliant.
