My husband asks me this, incredulous. Why are you so tired?
It's my answer to the standard "How are you" question.
Tired of thinking, tired of rushing, tired of trying, tired of living.
____ fatigue. The kind that, if there were no baby needing me, would keep me in bed all day, sleeping 16 hours at a ____, the way I slept at the start of my senior year in college, when I was so _____ depressed.
So tired that this writer's brain can't come up with words, and I end up with a sort of sleepy aphasia, spending who knows how much brain power trying to think of the word I'm looking for, googling phrases that might contain it, running synonyms through the Word thesaurus.
So I'm even tired of trying to think of words and am just typing blank lines when the words don't come.
Ah, yes. Depression. It's back. It's been back for a while.
So last night I dreamed I was on a roller coaster and kept trying to unlatch the bars that held me in so I could jump off. Not that I was feeling suicidal or wanting to hurt myself--I just wanted off.
And that's how it is in real life. My mind never stops and it's a roller coaster of a life inside my head and I just want to get off of the ride for a while.
I'm so tired of being tired. I know I need to be on medication. I've searched the web and talked to doctors and consulted pharmacists, and I can't find anyone who will tell me that Prozac, the one antidepressant that ever seemed to work for me, is safe for nursing mothers to take.
So, I need to wait. I need to wait while I wean this little sweetie pie who just turned one year old. But, despite all the "How to Wean Your Baby" articles I've read, I don't even know where to start.
I don't want to wean her before she's ready. At the same time, I'm nearing some sort of breaking point. I've hit that breaking point before. I don't want to go back again.
For a while, it looked like she was beginning to wean herself; she seemed uninterested in midday feedings, so I stopped going to see her during my lunch hour. That was two weeks ago. Now she wants milk all the time. When I see her after work, she holds her arms out desperately toward me and wails as if she needs me to save her from drowning. I take her in my arms and she starts trying to pull up my shirt with her fumbly little hands, saying, "Ba-bee," "bee-bee," and other variations of "booby." (Yep ... We use "nurse," "milky," and "booby" to refer to breastfeeding. Of course she picks up on "booby" as her word of choice!)
When I'm with her, when I'm nursing her, all that stress, all that tiredness, all that hopelessness just melts away, and all is right with the world.
I'm no more eager to quit the breastfeeding than she is.
I don't know where this blog post is going. All I know right now is that I'm between a rock and a hard place, and that writing usually helps, but that writing is also something that I never, ever have time for anymore.
I went to my pastor for several counseling sessions, and they helped, sort of. Mostly they just reinforced what I already knew: I'm meant to write, and when I don't have the time, energy, or privacy to write, my sense of balance--emotional, mental, spiritual--starts to go. And when I don't have the time or energy for piano or exercise either, I'm in even more dangerous territory.
I read a lot of blogs by Christian women that read like the Psalms: They begin talking about how hard life is, then they end on a faith-filled, hopeful note of praise about how God takes care of them anyway.
I don't feel that way these days. I read those blogs and it's like reading something from another culture.
I don't identify. Even my verse of choice rings hollow these days.
I know it's the depression. It's always the depression.
It's time to leave for work. Sorry for such a downer post. I've started writing posts for this blog every day, and every one of them ends up this way. So maybe if I just put this out there, the need to write it will leave my system and I'll be able to focus on other things.