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Thursday, March 21, 2019

14 months later.

I haven't posted anything in over a year. And what a year its been.
The biggest one yet.

I'm not in the mood to recap. To drag all those memories out from the past, mull them over. Maybe one day I'll want to do that. I'd like to have proper memories of my pregnancy and birth to look back on. I know there's a bit scattered through a few notebooks around the house.
Writing has always been healing for me, so useful to help process everything. I get a bit lazy to use pen and paper, and well, these days have a whole lot less 'me time'.

What the frick was I doing with all my time before Billy?

I do love him so much. But God, I feel so different.

I've grown, torn, deflated - physically, emotionally - over the last 14 months. The thought of even writing about my postpartum experiences is churning my stomach. I know Billy's been having all these EEG's, an MRI brain. But writing it down? I've just realised that I feel sick at the thought of even going there. Am i really avoiding it, then? Is this coping or is this ignoring?

I'm paying a bloody fortune to see a psychologist, just so I can lie and say that I've been meditating.
Of course I'm not fucking meditating. I can't even do deep breathing while breastfeeding, without Billy latching off, looking at me like 'wtf do you think you're doing?'

Sometimes, after Billy has a bath with me, Tim whisks him away and I spent a couple of minutes soaking in the water. I fill it up with more hot water, sink down a little lower. I listen to Billy starting to crack it - hes tired - and out comes the bath plug, and up I get. The moment of calm had yet again been a mirage, but I still am grateful for it.

I'm dreading going back to work, because my priorities have shifted so much. I can no longer be ignorant to the other working Mum's. No longer keep tallies of all their built up sick leave, silently (and sometimes not so silently,) judging.
I'm on the other side of it now. What does that mean for me? Where do I slot in?

I've been lonely, and tired. Also impatient, wanting to do things. I'm told that the days are long but the years are short. What if the days are short? Everything is flying by. Billy's 5 months now, and hes up for 1-1.5 hours, followed by a 50 minute nap. And repeat.

Sometimes in the nap time I try to nap, too. I jump into bed, strip down to my knickers, eyemask on, and will myself to sleep. Sometimes I conk out easily. Other days, not so much.
Otherwise I use that time to shower. Or eat. Or pop some makeup on, make the bed, fold the washing.
Then hes awake. Rinse and repeat.

Tim's busy still trying to do all of the things. I throw guilt at him like it's going out of fashion. I think that some days he doesn't realise that he's often the only person I speak to ALL DAY. I've gone from having a very social and interactive job to this isolated life of me and bubs. Social media doesn't count.
Yes I see friends and family, but it's all still worlds apart from where I used to be. I'm still coming to terms with this new life. Am I stronger, or more sensitive? Do I care more, or less?

I don't know. Even writing isn't flowing as nicely as it usually does. Nothing is poignant here, just a whole lotta thoughts darting around. It'll do for now.
Hopefully it won't be another year before I post next.

It's all just slipping by.