This week has been rough. And that’s an understatement. I’m not here to whine about it (which is why I haven’t posted anything in a few days – I didn’t have anything nice to say), but often writing helps me find my perspective, so bear with me here.

Mike and I have been on our own for just barely over a week. My mom has been staying with us pretty consistently since November to help out, but she finally went home last Monday. Even as I’m writing this, I’m surprised that it’s only been a week. Because I feel like I’ve been in my own personal hell.

Toby has screaming fits a few times a day now, and he often can’t be soothed. I walk him around the house for hours at a time, holding him different ways, rocking with him, and eventually he’ll calm down just enough for the screams to turn into sad little grunts and whimpers. I can’t set him down, I can’t stop moving, and he won’t sleep. I’ve ruled out any more stomach issues – I’m still not eating dairy or chocolate or a whole laundry list of veggies and legumes – but the anti-gas drops I have don’t seem to help, so it must be something else.* My mother told me that maybe my expectations are too high – babies are often fussy for no reason at all (at least, not reasons that we can seem to figure out), so I’ve lowered by expectations. But I’m already sleep deprived and my anxiety levels are through the fucking roof, so it doesn’t do much good.

Yesterday I finally snapped. I was exhausted and my arm was going numb from toting Toby around all day. He wouldn’t let me put him down and I had to keep moving to keep him happy. After a few hours of this, Mike needed help getting his shoes back on. And since I couldn’t do it with one hand, I had to set the baby down. And he fucking lost it. I finished with Mike, took Toby back upstairs and started sobbing. I felt angry and so incredibly alone. I had a broken husband and a child that I couldn’t comfort and no one was there to see me falling apart.

I’d like to think that I’ve been doing pretty well dealing with the stress and anxiety of the last six months. I didn’t realize until this morning though, that my coping mechanisms aren’t really working anymore. I tend to eat a lot when I’m feeling overwhelmed – it’s not particularly healthy, since I have a weakness for chocolate and baked goods – but there are certainly worse things to do to your body. I’ve been leaning pretty heavily on that particular method of coping (and blaming it on pregnancy / I-just-had-a-baby-ness), but with Toby’s food sensitivities, I can’t eat chocolate (my preferred coping food) and most baked goods have either eggs or dairy in them, so they’re off-limits too. My next inclination is to just avoid the situation. Normally, I’d hand the baby over to my mom (or sister, when she was in town) and shut myself in the bathroom for twenty minutes to cool down. But she’s not here. There’s no one here to bail me out. I feel like a single mom. My husband, through no fault of his own, is physically incapable of helping me with the baby. I’m stuck.

All of that went through my head yesterday, as I was desperately rocking Toby back and forth. He was still screaming, I was sobbing and occasionally yelling obscenities at the wall (that should surprise no one). I desperately wanted to push those feelings back down, to focus on something else – anything else. So I took a razor from the cabinet and sat there with it, my baby still screaming in my arms.

And that’s when I realized that there is probably something wrong with me. Because as desperate as I’ve been in the past, I’ve never wanted to hurt myself as badly as I did yesterday. I felt broken and shitty and tired and fucking worthless. And I still feel that way.**

I’d been seeing a therapist for a few months right around the time that Mike came home from the hospital. It helped, but when Michael’s employment was terminated, we lost our health insurance, and I couldn’t afford the cost of weekly therapy. After this week though, I realize that if I want to continue functioning (and to stop screaming at the walls – because my neighbors are going to think I’m batshit crazy) that I need help. So I’ve made an appointment with someone else at a community clinic a few cities away. Actually, it’s the same clinic where I was once a student therapist, which seems pretty damned poetic. Or ironic. Either way, at least I won’t get lost when I go in for my appointment this week. Cheers.

*For the record, since I changed my diet, he has improved. He is sleeping through the night better (instead of waking up screaming every few hours), though he has really been struggling during the day. Maybe it’s a baby thing.
**In case you’re freaking out right about now, I threw the razor away before I did anything with it. I’m not suicidal and I didn’t cut myself.