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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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It’s not your fault

It’s shitty. It’s shitty that I feel this way. It’s nobody’s fault. Per say. It was just the combination of it all the ruined it. Ruined isn’t the right word, it’s a little too intense. But it’s what fits the best. Nothing went the way I wanted, planned, or imagined.

I knew for a fact that labor, delivery, and postpartum would not at all be easy. I didn’t think it would be so difficult though. I should have known though. I didn’t think that I would be able to sneeze Grayson out like he was nothing. He was a big baby. I didn’t imagine the recovery would be so intense though. Nobody ever talks about it, it’s never shown on TV how hard it is, and I never saw a baby so young before. I thought I planned for most things when making my postpartum care kit. I had pads, pain killers, ice packs, various things to relieve the pain. Everything that everyone agreed would be your best friend during your recovery time.

What I didn’t prepare for was how hard breast feeding would actually be and my in laws. Breastfeeding is another thing that nobody really talks about. And when they do it’s always #breastisbest and #freethenipple, about how good extended breastfeeding is and how women shouldn’t be shamed for opening breastfeeding in public. How we shouldn’t nurse under a cover or in the bathroom, because we as adults wouldn’t want to eat under a sheet or while sitting on the toilet. Nowhere does anybody talk about how difficult it is to actually get the hang of nursing. That it can take days for your milk to come in, if it comes in at all. That some women can’t produce milk or enough to feed their baby properly. That your breasts may be too large, your nipples may be flat or inverted, your child could have a tongue tie, your baby may just be lazy and not want to latch. A long list of things could go wrong to make breastfeeding difficult or impossible. I have large breasts, and large and somewhat flat nipples, and Grayson has a little mouth. Latching properly was hard. Very rarely did he latch properly. And my milk didn’t come in for almost a week. We had to supplement for a few days and when my milk did come in, he still struggled to latch. So we started pumping. But I didn’t produce a lot. I tried so many things to boost my supply. Eating various things that are said to increase supply, pumping as if he were cluster feeding, putting him to my breast every time he cried in hopes that that would bring on something helpful. None of it worked.

It didn’t help that the entire time that this was going on people were around. My in laws to be exact. My family was rarely around during the first month. My mother in law had our spare key since she stayed with us for a night and had accidentally locked herself out while we slept so we gave her the key and never gave it back so she could let herself in whenever she wanted. And to me it seemed like they were always over. During the labor they sat in the waiting room, even though I said I didn’t want people out there waiting. And my desires were ignored. And it caused Patrick to go out there a few times to give them updates because they kept pestering him for them and apparently texts weren’t good enough. When they came the next day to visit while still in hospital they completely overstayed their welcome. They should have taken the cues to leave when doctors and nurses showed up more than once to check on myself and Grayson, as in massaging my stomach to get everything back to normal and examining my tears, and having me try to feed my child.

That pattern continued after we got home. They came over almost daily during the first week or so. I was struggling to breastfeed and very uncomfortable attempting to breastfeed in front of them. Especially when Jessica has a nervous laugh and anytime I tried to do something she would sit there and giggle uncontrollably. Then Patrick and I started talking about buying a breast pump since Grayson wouldn’t latch. Jessica said she could find a used one one Facebook Market Place, which I didn’t want. It’s a somewhat intimate item and there is no way of knowing if the used ones were cleaned properly or even worked well still. Then she started making jokes about pumping bras and how funny I would look wearing one, when I was thinking about getting one because I didn’t want to be sitting there having to hold the bottles to my chest while the milk was pumped. How else did she expect me to pump if I didn’t have something holding the pump to my chest? It was a lot of overstaying the welcome....not even welcome because after a while I wanted to rip their throats out. Especially once Grayson was being bottle fed, they took it upon themselves once or twice to pick up the bottle and feed him while holding him. Something I really didn’t want, because my heart was in a million pieces because I couldn’t breastfeed and I tried to mimic the experience while giving him his bottles and they were taking that away from me.

One of the biggest things that I’m still stewing over is the time spent in the hospital. I had to be induced and was purposely not telling anybody because I didn’t want an entourage in the waiting room while I was in labor. I didn’t want people coming into my room or Patrick leaving my room. I didn’t want anybody posting about it unless I did first, mainly because of my overbearing grandmother. She was pissed at her stepdaughter for not telling her when she was in labor either time until after her kids were born. Grayson is her first great grand child. If she had anything to do with it, she would have been in the room with me, staring at my vagina as if it were the best show in town. So I didn’t tell anybody anything except my mom and my dad. And Patrick only told his mom and twin brother, who in tern told a large handful of people. And then Jess posted on Facebook, tagging both Patrick and I, that I was in labor. When even I hadn’t. Then she posted that Grayson was born before I got to.

I’m trying just to write the facts and not be mad, but it’s not exactly working. Yes, I’m still mad. And yes, to some extent I blame my in laws for that. I know it wouldn’t have been a walk in the park if they weren’t around. But they very much overstayed their welcome. Very much overstepped. And very much took things from me that I’ll never get back.

Never again will I be pregnant with my first child. I might never be pregnant again. And she told the world he was born before I got to. Before Patrick even got to. And yeah, I hate her for that. I want to let it go and move on. Just like everything else. But if I’m still crying about it, it still matters. If it still matters to me, I can’t just stop caring and move on. Even if I want to.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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I wanna be mad

I guess that’s what I can say. Even if it’s not true. I don’t wanna be mad. I don’t want to hate. I try to forgive. I try to forget. I try to move on. But I’m only human. And I’m a human controlled by the negative emotions. The ones nobody wants to feel. The ones I tend to feel too much. The curse of mental illness.

That all being said, in this case I’m having a very hard time not being mad. Not hating. Not forgiving, forgetting, and moving on. I keep trying. But the mountain of emotion, no matter how much I try, ceases to fall. Maybe it’s because I haven’t processed and addressed...the mountain in general. To which I say, I have talked about it before. With Patrick, with my mom, with my therapist, with my new therapist. And yet here I sit, still stewing in hatred and holding on to the past.

Thinking back to the past...the past past, like things that happened years ago. Not the stuff that’s going on now. I’ve moved past a few things. I’ve moved past all--literally all--the bullshit that I’ve gone through with Kendall and we’re all good now. I’ve moved past the messiness that was the ending of my relationship with Cal. I’ve accepted my father for the asshole that he is. I’ve accepted the shit that went down when I was younger and moved on with my life, knowing that I can’t change it.

So why is this different? Is it even different?

Maybe it’s different because I’m just over this bullshit and I was over it before it started. Maybe it’s because I’m 25 (was 23 when this fuckery started) and I went through this drama in high school. Maybe it’s because it has to do with my child. Maybe it’s because he is acting selfish, a trait that I cannot stand in people. Maybe it’s because he knew what was going on before and still didn’t care, making his selfishness in my eyes, even worse.

If you haven’t guessed, I’m talking about Nicholas [Last Name]. So much shit went down between learning I was pregnant and now that I just can’t let go and I don’t know why. Maybe because this is some serious shit to me. Maybe because it’s my child, the child I’ve been dreaming about and wanting and fearing I would never be able to have. Who knows really? Maybe I will by the time I’m finished typing.

It starts with him telling me that I should abort my child upon first learning that I was pregnant. Yes, that is right. When Nick learned I was pregnant, he told me to abort the thing. It was after he and Celia had “broken up for good” and Celia was going to move out. Patrick and I were set to move in with Nick and then the three of us were going to move to Wisconsin when the lease was up in March. But the problem with that was March was 8 months away and I wasn’t going to move to a new state while 8 months pregnant, away from my family and support. Nick’s opinion didn’t matter anymore. Everything was now my and Patrick’s choice to make and he just had to deal with it. But for him, he was inconvenienced and on his own to figure his shit out because we were too.

The next problem issue that I have was about a month later in October. I was already on my leave of absence because of the hyperemsis. Nick knew this. He also knew that Celia was having a panic attack or something at work and he wanted to be with her. But Julian was being a brat and he didn’t want to bring the demon child along. So he called me to watch Julian for a while so he could make sure Celia was okay. This one isn’t as bad as the others. But it still irks me. He called and asked if I could sit in the living room while Julian was in time out in his room. It was my decision to call Nick and see if the kid could come out and eat since he was calmer. It wasn’t that bad, I didn’t vomit while I was there and it wasn’t for that long. But it still happened and it still adds to the mountain.

Fast forward to around December if I’m not mistaken, as I was wearing the Christmas joggers that Patrick bought me, and I went to the ER for the second time because I couldn’t stop vomiting and was very dehydrated. I was dizzy and needed help standing. It late, I think Patrick may have come home early to take me to the ER. For whatever reason, Nick and Celia took Celia’s dying car to pick up Julian. They were somewhat close to the ER, picking up Julian when the car died. Nick’s first thought was to call Patrick. “brother, come jump my car.” Patrick at first time him no, that he was in the ER with me. Two more calls from Nick saying he had nothing else and trying to justify why it would be fine for Patrick to leave his pregnant girlfriend in the emergency room. I finally gave in just so Nick would stop fucking calling and told him to go. The third time he called, Patrick went. He was gone for over an hour because he tried to jump their car, then had to drive them all the way back out to Nick’s apartment to get his car keys, drive them to Walmart to pick up Nick’s truck, and stop somewhere else so Celia could pee, before coming back to me. The minute he left I got scared because suddenly I was alone. I wasn’t being well taken care of by the nurses, they were barely responding when I was paging so I could have help to go to the bathroom or so they could turn off my beeping IV stand or to bring me a blanket. They never did any of those things. The whole time he was gone, I kept texting Patrick asking when he would be back, where he was, begging him to come back, telling him what was going on with me, and eventually because I was crying and scared and he was taking so long, telling him that I hated him. Yes, he did came back and held me and told me he was sorry. Nick never apologized for taking Patrick from me or thanked me for letting him use me car. All he said was I didn’t need Patrick there and he had nobody else to help him.

Next, I’m halfway through the pregnancy and back to work. I was working with Nick in pharmacy and we were stocking the pain killers. For the life of me I can’t remember what we were talking about. I just know that there was context to his remark, but all I remember is the remark. “I kinda feel like it’s my kid too. I’m gonna be real protective of him.” First of all, no. Just no. That statement can imply so many things and to me it fucking does. It implies that him and I fucked. That there could be some possibility that the child is Nick’s. That Nick will try to raise this child. So many things that are by no means true at all. Never once did Nick cross my mind in the conception of my son. Never have I ever wanted to fuck Nick [Last Name]. In no way, shape, or form, is my son Nick’s and in no way will he partaking in raising him.

Up next is my labor and delivery, which I’ll never be over. It was my first child and it didn’t go the way I wanted because nobody listened to what I wanted. But that’s a different post entirely if it even becomes on.

Moving in with us when Grayson was only two months old. Not upholding his promises and responsibilities like he said he would while he lived with us. The stupidity and selfishness that was his taking more of his and Patrick’s security deposit because he felt more entitled to it because of a situation he and he alone caused when they both put of half of the money for the deposit. Still keeping his fucking shit stored here despite having a storage unit. Constantly telling us “it’s only gonna get worse” whenever Grayson is a handful because he feels like he knows what it’s like to raise a child because he spent a year with Julian, a toddler.

Julian was 2 when Nick met him. Grayson is a newborn and cannot be compared to Julian, who was basically passed around from family to family before ending up back with his birth mother who originally didn’t even want him and didn’t bother to really parent him. Grayson was wanted in every sense of the word and it will only get better from here because Patrick and I plan on raising our child with love and compassion and actually raising him, not just tolerating him.

The mountain is now huge and I don’t know what to do about it. Honestly, it goes back even further than just to when I learned I was pregnant. I’ve written about all of that though. Laundry, using us as his personal therapist, ignoring us when we gave him advice, come back crying later after it went wrong again after ignoring our advice, constantly dragging us into his shit with Celia even when I asked multiple times for him to kindly leave us out of it and keep it out of my home. The whole thing was a trigger for me. Shit, it still is.

I already knew what the problem was. Writing it out helped a little. At least it isn’t stewing in my brain. But do I like Nick again? No. Will I ever be able to like Nick again? I hope so. We shall see in the future.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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How can I say

I have a new therapist. My first new therapist in over two years. She was my first good therapist after two bad ones, a trip to the ward, and a decent one that just wasn’t for me. I hate the process of trying to find a new therapist. It took me 2 years to find this one and become comfortable enough with her to say the things that were slowly killing me. Now, I’ve still got a ton of things that are slowly killing me but I’ve got a new therapist. It’s not like this drama is new, so with her I’m having to go on tangents that honestly date back a year to a year and a half to explain some of the things as to WHY. Because sadly, a lot of those things are still relevant to the things that are going on now. But I can only talk so fast and say so many things in the 55 minutes that I’ve got with my therapist. The trust and comfortability needs to build up for me to say the things that I need to say without sending out red flags. Because half the time, my normal--in the ways of my depression and anxiety--is higher that everyone else’s normal.

How am I supposed to say to somebody new that I want to ... or I’m feeling ... when I still can’t admit those things to myself? How am I supposed to be reassured by a stranger that I’m doing things right and good when she doesn’t even know me? How will she know if I’m actually in the right or in the wrong without knowing me or the full backstory of the problem? How can I fill her in on 2 years worth of still somewhat relevant shit without sounding crazy or like I’m holding grudges? I’m not holding grudges, I’m holding....what’s the upset version of a grudge? A grudge implies anger. I’m not angry, per say. I’m upset. I’m hurt. I feel used and taken advantage of. And I can’t let those feelings go. But it’s not anger. It’s a sad grudge, not an angry one. I’d be a weeping ghost instead of one that throws things.

I know that one of the reasons I go to therapy is to say things that I can’t say to my family. Things that would worry them or upset them. Things that might be about them. And the stranger--the 3rd party person is a good person because they won’t be swayed by the emotion of the situation as they are not part of the situation. But a complete stranger, someone I just met I can’t tell them I’m having regrets about some of the choices I’ve made because there is so much more than simply “I wish I hadn’t done it.” Because it’s not as simple as “I wish I hadn’t.” There is some “I wish I knew...” and “maybe now wasn’t right...” and “[something that happened a year ago that plays into this situation] is really bothering me lately...”

Let’s take a detour shall we. I know that nobody is around to read this, that these posts are completely and utterly for me. That’s why I don’t use any form of tag when I post them. Why I have no reblogs on this page. But, as I have since I was young, I’ll play both sides of the conversation. Shelby, if this page is just a blip in the internet, why can’t you say what’s wrong? You’ve always been transparent with everything. Because, me. I’m ashamed of some of these thoughts that I have. Because I’m in denial. If I don’t say it, then it isn’t true. That if I keep burying it, it won’t ever be true anywhere but in my head. And I can lie to myself until the day I do. No! I’ll declare when somebody asks me, I never felt that way. And you have zero proof otherwise. Because if I admit it, I’m a horrible person. Not that I’m not a horrible person anyway. But there are just something that no matter who you’re talking to, no matter how you say it, no matter what you say before or after it, no matter how you justify it, you’ll be wrong no matter what. Unless you’re talking to someone who knows exactly what you’re feeling and it’s almost impossible to find someone to relate to with some stuff, especially things that I’m refusing to admit. As most other are refusing it themselves, as they to know that it will make them a horrible person.

I’ll admit to a lot of things. Damn near everything. I have borderline personality disorder. I’ve been to the mental hospital twice. I’ve tried to kill myself more than once. I cut myself for over ten years. I’ve smoked weed. I’ve stolen from stores. I cheated on my ex. I was molested as a child. I have herpes. But I will not admit this.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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What I’ll do next time

After going through the pregnancy, labor, delivery, and postpartum turmoil, I’ve come to some conclusions on how to do things next time around. Because I want there to be a next time.

Firstly, is TEAM GREEN! We won’t know the gender until the little one is born. No worry of disappointment, we’ll get to annoy people by no knowing, we’ll have that moment of “it’s a...” once it’s born and seeing that done in old movies and TV shows makes me want it, it’ll be fun and quite different than everybody else.

NOBODY WILL BE IN THE HOSPITAL ROOM WHILE I AM IN LABOR! I didn’t want anybody around this time and we told people, but nobody listened. I am uncomfortable, tired, and just want to be left alone with my husband (and this time my son too most likely). Birth is NOT a spectator sport. I do not need, nor do I want, an audience of a dozen people. I’ll make it know to everybody, including hospital staff so I can ensure that I get the privacy I want during that time.

EPIDURAL! While I would still prefer naturally, I know that I can’t handle it. I tried and my pain scale wasn’t even the highest it has ever been, but I just couldn’t handle it. The vomiting and constant pain, nope. No, thank you. I will wait and hopefully be able to wait it out like I did this time. I will be tapping out a little earlier and getting it before I’m ready to die.

NOBODY WILL BE ALLOWED INTO THE HOUSE UNLESS I SAY SO! I had an absolutely awful first few weeks of postpartum and having people letting themselves in my house and making themselves at home did not help. I struggled with breastfeeding and pumping, with just getting around the house because I hurt so much, keeping my emotions in check. I know that I will be so much more enjoyable for me to do it without a million people around, giving their opinions, wanting to hold the newborn, offering to take over, giggling uncomfortably.

I WILL BE A BITCH! I don’t give a fuck, I really don’t. It was made very clear to me that to get what I wanted, in my own house, with my own child, I needed to be a bitch. I got into a fight with my husband just to get my point out that I didn’t want people staying with us after Grayson was born. To make sure everything stated above goes as I want and as I need, I’ll have to push myself out of my area of comfort and fight for what I want. Am I looking forward to having to do that? No. I’m really hoping, since it won’t be the first grandbaby/first in 24 years, people will be less inclined to try to take over and be involved through every fucking thing. But if that does happen, I will be a bitch and I do not care.

THERAPY WILL SCHEDULED BEFORE THE PPD SETS IN! I learned the hard way that postpartum depression sets in hard and fast and in terrifying ways. When I did finally call to make the first postpartum appointment, I want able to be seen for five weeks. Five weeks is a long time to wait to see a therapist in general, it was even longer when I was fighting a completely new type of depression.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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I imaged a life for us

When we were in Wisconsin, I pictured Patrick and I having an apartment on the river, going to the farmers market on weekends before work, picking a favourite bar, sitting on the balcony at night, surrounding by fairy lights, drinking and laughing and talking about making a family. I pictured getting a pet and having a baby and making friends up there. A part time job so I could be at home with the baby more, Patrick getting a better job so he wouldn’t be working in the middle of the day. Day trips with our little person to the water park or something with Patrick’s family. Taking trips back to Illinois to see my family. Arguing about where to spend the holidays and then saving fuck it and taking our little person to Disney world instead.

Obviously plans changed when I got pregnant plans changed. And so did the life I pictured for us. For a while it was scary, very scary because everything was so uncertain. Then we started looking into apartments and when we took a tour of the model, I started imaging our new life. Toys scattered about, a gaming set up in the living room, a wonderfully messy lived in apartment. Having dinners together, Patrick teaching the alien how to play the game, summers by the pool. Then we started setting up the nursery and it got even better, even realer because it was actually happening. And soon. This apartment would be the first place that we would call home as a family, that we would bring our son home too. That nursery that I worked on to make it specifically for him would be his first bedroom. As I made up his bed with the Avengers sheets, I pictured lying him down in that crib, turning on the light of his mobile, checking on him while he slept, him babbling to his toys, tugging at the Captain America tapestry on the wall. I saw him taking his first steps in this apartment and learning how to swim in the pool. I saw our little family’s first years together in this apartment. I saw us living here until we moved to Wisconsin and got our first house.

It may seem ridiculous to some people that I care so much about this. But I do. It was involuntary picturing our life. But I did. And it made me so happy for once. After moving so much when I was little and not having a place to call my home until I was 8 and then moving here and there since I was 18 because living with my mom and step dad sucked, moving into this apartment and working so hard to make it feel like home was a blessing I didn’t realize I needed.

And now it’s not that anymore. With the drama in Nick’s life coming to a long awaited end, his life is uncertain and he is relying on Patrick and I....well, his twin brother more than me. He’s coming to stay without a plan as to what he is going to do next. That alone gives me anxiety. And it hurts my heart that he’s moving into my son’s room. The room I made and decorated with my son in mind. The room that will no longer be my son’s. And the life I picture is no longer there.

Instead of our tiny little nuclear family, it’s extend and uncertain. I don’t know where we’re going to be in a year. I don’t know where we’ll be, figuratively speaking, when I go back to work. And it makes the anxiety and depression worse. And it just makes me sad that the lives I keep falling in love with keep dying out before I ever get to live them. When I picture the extended family, I don’t get as happy as I did when I saw just the three of us. I keep seeing problems popping up that I can’t fix because Nick is a grown ass man that I’ve butted heads with dozens of times in the past and I’ve got a son to protect and a husband caught in the middle of his wife and his brother and I don’t know if he’ll stand by me no matter what because stuff keeps coming up with Nick and he keeps going to him and helping him. Do I want him to stop helping his brother? No. That would be asking him to stop being the man I fell in love with. I would rather Nick stop asking/expecting Patrick to help. In my head, my priorities have changed and so have Patrick’s and now our son and the three are what’s important.

But I don’t have a twin. I don’t have someone I am that unexplainably close with. They do though and they don’t see what’s happening as a problem. They see it as a good thing. They miss each other. They’re used to being in each other’s lives. I’m not.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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What nobody told me

- How much pain I would be in. It’s been almost 6 weeks and I still hurt in my nether regions.

- How much and how often I would be crying. Just how emotion I would be in general. It’s not simply a few tears. It’s a vice around my throat, a knife in my chest, damn near impossible to breathe. About nothing as well.

- How lonely motherhood could be. Even with my husband by my side and my son always with me, I still feel so isolated and alone. Probably because I haven’t been to work since April and because we never go anywhere because of the alien.

- How hard it might be to connect with my child. Even when breastfeeding or tummy time or skin to skin contact, I still feel distance from him now that we aren’t physically connected.

- How I might hate it. Hate is the wrong word, but it’s what fits right now because I’m sick with this fucking postpartum depression as well as postpartum anxiety. I keep reminding myself how excited I was when I learned I was pregnant and even when I was sick how amazing it was watching my stomach grow then in the hospital how amazing it was to finally get to hold him and the overwhelming feelings of love I had towards him. Those feelings are all still true but the depression and anxiety are a wet blanket that really dampen that flame.

- That postpartum anxiety was a thing I had to worry about as well. The overwhelming feelings that I’m a bad mother because I can’t stop him crying or because I take a little time to myself to sleep or go out to therapy, etc. were completely shocking when they set in. The sheer terror that something might happen if I’m not with him, even if I know he’s safe with his own father or one of his grandmothers.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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Postpartum Whatever

While I know that the millions of stupid things that I cry/panic over are just that, completely stupid at least most of them justifiable in my head. I’ll cry because I can’t shower with Patrick or sleep beside him anymore. I’ll cry when Grayson won’t latch or when I have to feed him a bottle because my dream was to exclusively breastfeed and to breastfeed for an extended period of time. I’ll cry when he’s crying and won’t calm down for anything. I get nervous and scared and have anxiety attacks when I don’t get enough sleep or when I hear him crying in the middle of the night, even though I know Patrick has him and he’s perfectly fine. I’ve got massive anxiety about him sleeping when we sleep right now because what if something happens to him? What if he throws up again and chokes on it because nobody was awake to help him? What if he rolls over in his sleep because he was thrashing and his face gets buried in his blanket? Take the blanket out you say? He won’t sleep in his bassinet without it. He hates lying flat on his back like everyone says he should be. Those thoughts and fears are at least justifiable.

I feel like a failure as a woman and a mother so I cry. I miss my husband and the life we used to have so I cry. I’m scared something will happen to my son so I have anxiety attacks. It all makes sense and those thoughts and emotions fit right into the mold of postpartum depression and postpartum anxiety.

What confuses me and what I can’t justify at all, is falling-to-my-knees type of emotional, choking back sobs type of crying because of Grayson. Because I think back to giving birth to him and the horrible pregnancy and how it was all worth it and how I actually want to do it all again in the future. Because I look at him growing and I want to keep him little and with me at all times so I knows he’s always safe. Because I know there will be a day that set him down and never pick him back up again. And I know that day won’t be for another 8 years at the minimum and that’s such a long time away. But everyone keeps telling us how fast it goes and it’s been a month already. It really seems like it was only yesterday that we came home from the hospital. Fuck, it feels like just yesterday that I was taking that pregnancy test. Yet at the same time that feels like an entire lifetime ago. And all that just proves what everyone is saying is true. And that just means that he’ll be grown and hating us before we even know it.

I remember what my teenage years were like. I also know that mental illness is genetic. I want my son to live a better life than I did. I want him to be happy and healthy. I don’t want him to be anything like me. There is no telling how he’ll be when he’s older and I want him to keep his innocence as long as possible. Just in case that my son gets stuck with my fucked it genetics.

Shelby, stop worrying abour the future and enjoy your time with your son. Savour it while you have it. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to. That’s why I never put my son down. It helps with the....whatever is going on in my head. And because I know at some point I won’t be able to hold him anymore. But I can’t stop worrying about the what’s gonna happen. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. No matter how hard I try, I can’t not do it. I’ve tried and I am going to keep trying.

Until the day that my eternal extensional crisis ends, I continue going to therapy once a paycheck, possibly more, and hold my son until I can’t anymore.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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Things I’ll never say

- I feel like a failure as a mother. He cries and cries and I can’t stop it. I can’t breastfeed him like I want to, like everyone says he needs, like everyone says is best. The thoughts I have are not motherly.

- I feel like a failure as a woman. I’ve never felt so betrayed by my body before. I accepted the mental illness, some things just don’t add up correctly in the brain for some. But I am a woman. Biologically, I was made to bare and feed offspring. And my body wasn’t made for that. My pelvic bone is almost too narrow for a baby to pass through. My breasts don’t make enough milk to feed my child.

- I want to get in the car and drive and never come back. And that terrifies me.

- I miss what life used to be like before I got pregnant. I miss drinking. I miss sex. I miss the way my body looked. I miss showering with my husband. I miss sleeping with my husband. I miss being loud.

- Even though I love my son with all of my heart and I can’t imagine my life any different, I still wish sometimes that I had a girl. I have American Girl dolls that I have been saving to pass on to a daughter. Before knowing the gender, i day dreamed about a little mini me, getting pedicures and manicures with my daughter. Raising a head strong little girl, like my mom raised me. Matching outfits and eventually putting her into ballet. I still feel an ache in my heart when I walk by the baby clothes in any store and see all the little girl stuff, bright and colourful and frilly and so much more variety than what the little boys have.

- I want to hurt myself.

- I want to go to sleep and never wake up.

- What have I gotten myself into? What am I even doing? I can barely take care of myself, how am I supposed to take care of my son.

- I feel like I’m a single parent. Patrick and I are completely separate sleep schedules because of the alien needing constant attention. By the time he wakes up, I am beyond exhausted and ready for bed and his friends are bickering for him to get on xbox. When I wake up, he is ready to go to sleep. He sleeps longer than I do and better than I do. I cook and clean and take care of the alien and pump while I’m awake. He doesn’t. He seems so put out when I ask him to do some laundry.

- I don’t like when someone else has my baby. Especially when someone else is feeding him or when he is crying. He is my child. I literally grew him from an egg. I am his mother. He needs me right now. Give him back. (With Patrick being the exception to this. Patrick helped greatly in his creation.)

- I’m over Nick’s drama and bullshit and neediness and basically his existence. He and that bitch of a woman broke up before the baby shower in April. He needs to stop defending her and taking care of her and move the fuck on already. He needs to figure out what he’s going to do and do it. He needs to separate himself from Patrick and I and our family. Our home is not his hotel or halfway house to use as he needs it. I’m sick of him saying he’s gonna do one thing and then doesn’t follow through it or does the opposite of what he said.

- Everyone saying they love my son and showing him off like he’s theirs gets under my skin so much. To the point where I want to start punching people for posting/sharing pictures of MY child on their Facebook pages. I didn’t even get to post about my labor first or my birth announcement first because Patrick’s sister beat me to it.

- I really miss the way my body used to look because I know that my boobs, hips, stomach, vagina, will never be the same again. I used to be skinny and angular and pretty and guys used to stare at me when we would go out. Now I’ve got a mom body. My hips are forever wider. I’ve got scars and stretch marks that will never fade. My boobs, which were already naturally low hanging because they were so big are already saggier now because milk and breastfeeding. I don’t hate the way I look, per say. I created life for crying out loud. I’m a badass. But it’s yet another change.

- Too much is changing in such a little amount of time. It’s overwhelming.

- I really don’t want to be on government aid. It’s looked down upon by a lot of people. All our friends gave Nick shit when he used Celia’s LINK card. My dad has been talking shit about people on government aid for as far back as I can remember. I’ll feel like even more of a failure for getting so much help.

- I hate people. Especially the people I’m related to. Strangers most of the time will keep their mouths shut or I can let their words roll off because they don’t know the situation and they don’t matter. But I’m sick of my family all saying shit about the situation we’re in. Giving us shit and asking when Patrick and I will get married. Drilling into my head that breast is best and questioning me like it’s such a horrible thing that I’m giving my son a bottle. Reminding us again and again to get on government aid.

- I feel so loss and disconnected to the world. Even just to Patrick. I feel like nothing else matters except my son and that nobody else knows how I feel. I’ll try to talk to some people about what I’m feeling and it just gets a little written off. “Oh everyone has baby blues.” “There’s nothing wrong with not breast feeding.” “That’s totally normal.” Except it’s not just baby blues. It’s hysterical crying to where I can’t even breathe. It’s intense fear that something is going to happen to my son if I’m not around. It’s a deep, deep hatred of myself and feeling like a completely and utter failure as a woman and as a mother because I can’t breasfeed. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel normal.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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Doesn’t make sense now

How can something I finally got after wanting it for so long feel so wrong? Despite being as against the grain as I am, I have always wanted to be a mom. I played pretend with my dolls and even my transformers and other toys. I would put pillows and basketballs under my shirt and pretend to be pregnant. Between the ages of 16-23 I had about a dozen pregnancy “scares” and almost every time I was more upset when the test was negative or I would get my period. Then I got cervical cancer and ovarian cysts and the chances of me being able to convience and bare a child dropped. And after actively trying to have a baby for 7 months, I finally got the news I always wanted. That little blue plus sign.

Now I sit, 3 weeks postpartum, with my beautiful son in my arms and things just don’t feel right. I wish I knew what was wrong but I don’t. I just know that it is. This isn’t how I pictured it. This isn’t how I wanted it to be.

Maybe it’s because I had a shitty pregnancy. Maybe it’s because birth was more traumatic than I realized it would be. Maybe it’s because I can’t breastfeed like I wanted to. Maybe it’s because everyone around me keeps saying how I should be able to breastfeed and it’s making me feel like a failure because I can’t. Maybe it’s because he cries and I don’t know how to fix it. Maybe it’s because I’m lonely because I hardly every see my husband right now. Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because my expectations were too high. Maybe it’s because I have a boy and I wanted a girl. Maybe it’s because I’m not cut out to be a mom.

Who knows?

I sure as shit don’t.

But whatever the reason, I feel like shit.

The thoughts inside my head are fucking terrifying. I wanna hurt myself, but that’s nothing new. I wanna hurt him sometimes. Which makes the desire to hurt myself even more. I wanna get in my car and drive and never come back. I wanna go to sleep and never wake up. I want my life to be the way it used to be again. And I hate every single one of those fucking thoughts. And I hate myself even more for having them.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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Postpartum Body Dysmorphia

You’d think as someone who has struggled with body issues and eating disorders since I was a teenager, I would be happy with losing my pregnancy belly and the baby weight. To some extent, I am. It just happened so quickly it has given me a shock. It took 9 months for me to grow, I had time to get used to every aspect of it. The need to eat, as well as the desire, the gaining of all the weight, the noticeable change in my body. Then in a matter of moments, it was all gone. No adjustment period, no slowly losing weight. A dramatic and sudden change that I didn’t realize that I wasn’t prepared for.

I miss being pregnant. But not in any form of sense that other new moms say they miss being pregnant. My pregnancy was horrible and I’m glad that all that awfulness is over. No more daily vomiting, unrelenting heartburn, little feet kicking my ribs and bladder, constant peeing, feet so swollen I couldn’t wear shoes, backaches that had no relief, sleepless nights. Do I miss my baby being inside of me? Yes, I will agree with other women. I miss him inside of me. I miss him being so close to me. I miss knowing that he was always safe and happy as long as I was. But my miss of pregnancy is different. I miss it in the sense of I had grown used to the way I looked. I had grown to accept that I was beautiful at almost 200 pounds. That I was doing something amazing with the body that I had been hating since I was a kid. That I was useful.

I never knew that I would need so much time to adjust to losing weight. Seeing as barely even a year ago I was still struggling hardcore with bulimia and the obsession to lose weight. Counting calories, skipping meals, purposely taking the harder positions at work, making myself sick. And a year before that I was a slave to the eating disorder and it shows in the pictures of me from that time. Looking back at those times, I look like a completely different person. But thinking to myself, I know I’m no different. Not really. Even thought I’m no longer a slave to the broken side of my brain, I’m still fighting with myself as bad as I ever have.

Only now, everything is so different. So much scarier. So much deeper. So much harder. I’ve got this little person who is dependent on me in every possible way, just like he was before he came out of me. Only now there is a disconnect between the two of us. He is his own person now and I am mine again. Which is where it gets realer and scarier because I’m struggling with taking care of myself because he isn’t directly dependent on me. So therefore, according to my stupid brain, that means I don’t need to care for myself. That means I’m allowed to give into the mental disorders. The paranoia, the not wanting to eat, the depression, all of it. But I also know that that isn’t true. If anything, because he isn’t inside of me anymore, he is my reason even more for fighting for myself, my health, my sanity.

Now if I can just get out of my own head and let myself get better. For myself, for my son, for my husband, for the life that we want to live. If only I could still see myself as I saw myself when I was pregnant. Accept my body for the way it is. Accept that my body is forever changed. I made a fucking human. I’ve got a mother’s body now. Yes, I’ll be able to get back in shape and with a body I’m happy with eventually. But it will take a while and even then, it won’t ever be like it was. I’ve got scars in places I never thought I’d have them in. I’ve got stretch marks and wider hips. Pains in places I’ve never had before. Maybe this stuff will change with time, maybe it won’t. I need to come to accept that. The sooner I do, the sooner I’ll be able to get over it and start getting better.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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I feel so alone

Even with Patrick taking paternal leave, I still feel like I’m doing this parenting thing all on my own. I feel like all he does is sleep. He’ll bring the alien into the room around 9 and that’s usually when I get up, no matter when I go to sleep. Then he sleeps what feels like all day long. By the time he gets up, we get maybe 6 hours together before I’m too exhausted to function anymore. Yet, even when I stay up late, I don’t get to sleep past 9:30.

When I am awake, I do everything. I pump so the alien has milk to drink. I take out the trash and do the laundry. I do up the dishes. I feed the alien and change his diapers, deal with him screaming and being fussy. I try to keep him quiet so Patrick can sleep. All while trying to take care of myself too. I’m struggling very much with self care, even what as simple as feeding myself.

I’m drowning in my own thoughts and lonesomeness. Nothing is going as I have imagined and this postpartum period is no better than the pregnancy itself. Worse because I’m so fucking emotional and without the alien inside of me, I have a hard time caring for myself. This has to be postpartum depression, but the earliest I can get in to see my therapist is June 10th. By then I fear I’ll already be drown completely by everything.

Patrick goes back to work June 24th. Nick is planning to move in on June 13th. Patrick’s mom keeps pushing to babysit so Patrick and I can go out for a date. I’m not ready for any of that. It’s bad enough dealing with loneliness when Patrick is just through the closed bedroom door. Or that I still haven’t adjusted to having Grayson in the house, let alone Nick and the drama he is sure to bring. Seeing as he still isn’t done with the Celia bullshit from what I’ve heard and still has no set plan on what he’s gonna do when he’s done staying with us.

Between fretting about whether or not I’m doing right by the alien, worrying about bills, Patrick and my leaves, whatever is going to happen when Nick gets here, I don’t know what I’m going to do anymore. I have nightmares, when I fall into a deep enough sleep to actually dream, about something happening to my alien or of fights and bullshit that may come to flourish once Nick arrives. I worry about losing my job or Patrick losing his due to something happening with Sedgwick that we don’t get told about.

I have tried to keep Patrick in the loop of my mental health but things have spiraled so quickly and half the time I don’t even know what to say as to why I’m crying. It feels so strange to tell him I’m crying because I know that there will be a day that I put Grayson down and never pick him back up again and there is no way of knowing what day that will be. Or worse that there is no reason behind what’s wrong, that it just is. A part of me also doesn’t want to tell him this because I don’t want him to think less of me or think that I can’t handle everything that is going on. I already got into a decent arguement with him before the alien came about having people come stay with us. I really don’t want that now. I already feel like a failure.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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Five days postpartum

I am depressed. I know some of it is because I’m five days postpartum and completely hormonal. Some of it is lack of sleep because of taking care of an infant. Some of it is because it’s the changing of the seasons and I’ve never done good in the warmer months mentally. Which I honestly think is the stupidest thing. Being depressed in the summer is literally the lamest thing. It’s finally warm, there is so much to do outdoors. Hiking, swimming, Pokémon hunting. But I digress.

I’m five days postpartum. All I wanted was him out. I was fat and miserable and uncomfortable. Now I miss the feeling of him inside of me. I hate that I have to share him with everybody else, especially after I spent so long growing him and taking care of him all by myself. I hate that so many people are over all the time. I hate that out of all of those people none of them have been my mom yet. I hate that Patrick and I don’t get to sleep together right now because of the alien. I hate that I can’t do anything because I’m in pain. I can’t sit properly, I hurt if I walk too much, going to the bathroom is a huge production, my boobs are too heavy and too big to feed my own child. I have no clue what I’m doing. I don’t know what’s normal when it comes to my healing and recovering and mental state.

Everyone asks how the alien is doing and how he’s getting on. Everybody cares about him. And yeah, I get it. He’s cute and little and perfect and the light of my fucking life. But there is more than enough written and studied and out in the open about what’s normal for babies and what isn’t. What about me? What’s normal for a postpartum mom? Am I supposed to be crying daily? How much crying is too much? How am I supposed to take care of my extremely abused vagina? Is this postpartum depression or baby blues? Is it normal to be so out of breath all the time? I’ll admit, there are probably answers to these questions that I just haven’t found. Although that is my point. Everything when leaving the hospital was what to look for in baby. Nurses and doctors talked with me for hours about what to look for for something wrong with baby. I had maybe half an hour with a social worker about what to look for when it came to myself. And I retained none of that information.

So now it comes down to, which type of depression is this? The normal summer depression I usually get, baby blues, postpartum depression. How long am I supposed to wait to find out? I guess one plus side is, it’s been raining and when it rains I feel better. The sunshine just makes it worse. Like I’m being teased and taunted that outside is such a lovely place to be and I am not out there enjoying it. The rain is relaxing and makes it okay for me to want to stay inside and have cuddles with Patrick or the alien.

It’s strange, looking at this little thing I created. I’ve been with him for so long now and he relied on me so much and I love him more than I can express with words. Yet there are times when I find myself thinking if this was the right thing to do. Not for the sake of not wanting him, because I want him. But because I worry about being a shitty mom. That it isn’t fair to him that I’m sick. That he shouldn’t have to look up to see me crying or have to turn to daddy or worse fend for himself if I’m too depressed to do anything. Because I’ve got sick thoughts and marks all over my body. Because there is no guarantee that I’ll get better or that I won’t get worse. That I can fight until I’ve got nothing left and it’s still not enough.

Yes, he is my reasonable to keep building a ladder no matter what. And I know I’ve got Patrick to help me. That doesn’t make it any quieter in my head.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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On boundaries and invalidations

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had issues with setting boundaries and having my feelings/wants/needs completely invalidating and overlooked. Seriously, thinking back to my childhood, I was very uncomfortable around men. Not just because my parents divorced and I was raised almost compeltely by women when I was very young. But because I was sexually assisted, multiple times by more than once person before ever hitting puberty. I never told anyone until recently, but that is not the point. I never felt comfortable around men, but I was a very cute little kid and adults fawned all over me, never listening when I said to stop tickling or when I didn’t want to talk just to they could giggle and laugh at my speech impediment or when I didn’t want to sit on laps anymore.

The same thing goes for being invalidated for what I’m feeling. When you’re a kid you don’t have the proper vocabulary skills to express what you’re feeling or why. Which makes it hard to explain why you’re scared or sad for no reason whatsoever. It look me years to realize that the sudden and intense fear that made me cry and occasionally throw up it was so bad, were panic attacks. I would be sad for days on end, no matter the situation, and cry and be told off for crying for no reason (“I’ll give you something to cry about”) or having zero desire to do anything except sleep, those were my first episodes of depression.

My first year of high school, I knew I needed help. I didn’t want to talk to my mom because she had previously written off the panic attacks (“really, shelby? Again? You’re fine.”), all consuming anxiety, and depression (“it’s just your period”) since I started having those feelings. I remember sitting at the dining room table after getting yelled at for so long about my dropping grades, crying because I had always been good in school, always been on the honor roll, and knowing I was still capable of those same achievements, but I couldn’t get past whatever was wrong in my brain to make it happen. I tried telling my mom I needed to see a therapist. That something was wrong. That I was scared, scared of myself, scared for myself. It wasn’t until almost the entire school year later, after I had taken to cutting myself to cope with everything that she realized how serious I had been all those months ago.

Around that same time, my bounderies were pushed even more. We lived in an old house and my door didn’t have a latch on it. So to keep the dog out of my room so she wouldn’t keep chewing up my things, my mother put a simple hook and eye lock on my door so it would stay closed when I wasn’t in it. My brother took to locking me in my room, thinking it was hysterical. More than once I had to climb out my own bedroom window just to get out of my room or yank my door open so hard I had had the door knob come off in my hand. We also only had once bathroom. That was the one room with a lock (that comes into play soon). I would announce to the family when I was going to shower and ask if anyone needed in there before my shower, so I wouldn’t be disturbed. It took me years to learn to do this, but even so I would always have someone knocking or just barging in halfway through my shower (not even 30 minutes) saying they needed to use the bathroom. So I would be stark ass naked, with usually my step dad or brother through a flimsy shower curtain or worse before we got rid of it, a clouded sliding glass door between us. Talk about an invasion of privacy. So I started taking to locking the door. To which I instantly started getting yelled at for. (“What if someone needs in there.” “What if something happens to you and we can’t get in.”) I would get the same lecture/scolds when I started putting my heavy saxophone case or a chair in front of my bedroom door when I slept because I had someone start invading my bed at night.

In therapy, I finally started learning that I matter. That what I feel matters. That what I want and what I need matter. That I’m allowed to say no and if someone doesn’t like it, it’s their problem, not my own. 10 years later, I’m still struggling with accepting it and making what I want known, but I at least can say it now and believe it.

It wasn’t until about 4 or so years later, when I moved out of my moms house not even a year after graduating high school, that I started testing bounderies. Simple things, like setting up rules with my roommate about shared common space and personal private space. And low and behold, she respected my bounderies. For the two years we lived together, maybe a handful of times did she knock on the bathroom door while I was in there. Never once did she break the noise rule we had in place or barge into my room without knocking, even if the door was open. It was liberating to feel validated and respected by somebody. Even if that somebody was simply my best friend.

Alas, at 19 I was working 2 jobs and going to school full time, as well as being in a committed relationship and having a pretty active social life. This was just before the rise of awareness of the importance in mental health and self care. I would be going nonstop at least 5 days a week. Class from 8am-12pm on M/W/F, followed by working my first job from 12-4, second jo from 4:30-10, then home to study, hang out with friends or girlfriend, and usually smoke a lot of pot. On Tuesday’s and Thursday’s I would work opening shifts at my first job, from 5or6am-2:30pm, followed by the same second job hours. Weekend would be the same as Tuesday’s and Thursday’s but not end until around midnight, usually followed by partying at a first house. This scheduled went on for two years. Until one day, everything caught up with me. I’m not sure when it all crashed around me, not too long after my 21st birthday. I don’t remember when or what happened, I just remember being stoned out of my mind, hadn’t had proper meal or shower in a few days, sitting on the truck of my car, smoking a cigarette as I cried/fought with my then girlfriend about the new cuts on my arms.

I’ll save the depression and all that mental health talk for another rambling, that’s not why we’re here today. It ended with me getting help, lots of help, having to quit one of my jobs, break up with my girlfriend, and move back home with my mother, right back to the hell i had worked so hard to crawl out of. Only now, the rules and lack of freedom were even worse, and even more so because I was sick and “didn’t help around the house.” All the validation in myself that I had, that I was struggling to hold on to, disappeared like a smoke in the wind. Only worse, due to living on complete opposite schedule as my mom and step dad, so the rules just kept coming.

No showering after midnight, the noise wakes us up (I didn’t get home from work until 12:30 most nights)

The kitchen closes at midnight, make yourself food before you go to work and heat it up when you get off, you keep waking us up

No using the microwave once we’re asleep (my solution, turn the sound off the microwave so I can eat warm food)

Stop messing with the microwave, your step dad is convinced it’s broken

Clean the bathroom over the weekend (despite my busiest work days being the weekend)

Don’t add too much food to the grocery list, we aren’t made of money (I added an extra handful of things because a family party was coming up and I wanted to make a side everyone loved, but we didn’t have what I needed to do it)

No company

Don’t touch the thermostat (it was set at almost 80 in the winter, and my room was right above the furnace room, I was being roasted like a Christmas goose)

Don’t come in the backdoor

Quick stomping around after we go to sleep (old house, they lived in the basement, I could have and did tip toe, and it would still wake them up)

Take better car of your car (at this point, I was practically living in my car just to avoid being in the house, so the backseat was a mess of changes of clothes, fast food wrappers, and bottles of water, as well as a pillow and blanket for sleeping)

Stop hanging out with those people (three friends I had known since high school, only problem I stayed over at theirs a lot and was never home to be the house maid anymore)

At 23, I moved out again, with a threat/promise of never moving back into that house again, that I’ll be homeless first. I was moving in with a coworker and his girlfriend. I had grown very close with his girlfriend since he introduced us, wasn’t his biggest fan, but I needed out of that house. The three of us, and my boyfriend who moved in officially like a month later, had a small, two story condominium together. 2 bedrooms, 1.5 bathrooms. Enough space for all four of us. Until I learned that my coworker didn’t know/care about bounderies. Since he as comfortable with himself and didn’t care about a closed door or a shirt or names written on leftovers, neither did anybody else.

The first week of living together, I was already regretting moving in with them. In the course of 7 days I had:

Seen my coworkers dick

Been walked in on multiple times while showering or using the toilet (no lock on the door)

Been walked in on while having sex with my boyfriend (bought a lock that same day)

Had 3 different leftovers eaten

Had all of the soda I bought drank before I even had a can of it myself

Didn’t get told I had a bill from my therapist

Had my female roommate change her clothes in front of me, in my room, while we were talking about Shameless

Had both roommates invade my room to watch the movie Patrick and I were watch, without being invited

Overheard my male roommate having sex with someone that wasn’t his girlfriend (apparently they have an open relationship)

Now, Patrick and I live alone, preparing for the birth of our son (due literally any day now) and I’m working hard to put my foot down about what I need/want. And it needs to be known that what I, as someone who is about to push a baby out of my fucking body, need/want is honestly all that matters right now. I don’t want people staying with us. Yet, for the last three nights, we’ve had people staying with us. Nick two night and last night, their mother. I have told Patrick I don’t want anyone but us (him and I and the baby) staying in our apartment for at least the first week of the alien’s life. I’m scared and pissed off that that isn’t how it’s going to go though.

Patrick’s mom is on disability right now, recovering from a very bad fall she had in the winter. While she is doing much better, she isn’t working so she has nothing but free time. She came down earlier than excpected, as she decided she would like to be around for the birth and to be around for Nick, and will be staying in town until at least mid-June from what I have gathered. So she brought A LOT of stuff with her, as well as gifts for the baby and stuff (food) that can only be bought in her state that we like. I’m trying to have patience when it comes to this, that Nick’s ex basically trashed his apartment while she’s in the process of moving out, that Nick is very ashamed of his situation and doesn’t want his mom in his apartment until it’s less of a wreck, that she won’t be stay with us after the birth. But I’m miserably pregnant, want my space, and this baby out of me. I really don’t care that Nick’s life is a mess right now. If he would just accept his mom’s help, it would be over and done with before my son is even born.

I am giving it one more day, seriously until the end of today, and if I don’t get what I want, I’ll become a bitch and I really don’t care who’s feelings I hurt in the process. After 24 years of invalidation and people not respecting what I want and what I need, and with my son to worry about, I honest to god, can’t be bothered to spare feelings anymore. This is my apartment, my baby, my body. I’m not just a vessel for creating a life that you can take as you please, not just a place you can crash because we have “an extra room”, not your baby. Deal with it or get gone.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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Too pregnant to be sympathetic

I'm trying to be patient when it comes to Nick. I know that he’s going through some hard, hard times and that he’s never gone through anything like this before. But I am 39 weeks pregnant. And I’ve been over this drama since it started honestly. I really do not care that he and Celia are finally done (she left this morning). I do not care that he does not want to stay in that apartment alone right now. I am too damn pregnant to care about anything except my own self. And yet, we have Nick camped out in our living room "just like the old days". Two televisions, two xboxs, and an extra person in my house right now.

I know under other circumstances, I would be sympathetic. I know what it's like to break up with someone you cared for so much. I know what it's like to lose a roommate. I know what it's like to not want to stay in your own home. But 39 weeks pregnant trumps my sympathy for him. Even if it is just until Becky comes down on Friday, it doesn't mean I'm not annoyed with it.

We live in a tiny ass apartment as it is. Just perfect for Patrick and I and our baby. Even that is pushing it a little bit, seeing all of our storage space is occupied and we still have some spill over in our own possessions in places. We don’t have the space to spare for a house guest. Yet, we have one. In the last few days of just Patrick and I being just us, before we become parents, the time that everyone has recommenced we savour as being just the two of us, we have a depressed Nick on our couch. Something I don’t want in any sense if I’m being completely honest, let alone right now.

My clothes don’t fit me anymore, but I can’t walk around in just my underwear anymore because someone is in my living room. I can’t be trying all the weird and sexual shit to trigger labor because someone is really close by. I can’t wander around the house and relax in the living room when Patrick is sleeping but I can’t because the living room is acting as someone’s bedroom. I have to cook for 3 and clean up after an extra person. I can’t even just relax in the living room and watch Vikings with my boyfriend because he’s occupied with Nick.

Unfortunately for me, the second I express this to anyone who can fix the problem (Patrick) I become a selfish bitch. But aren’t I allowed to be a selfish bitch right now? Seeing as I am literally growing a fucking person? Seeing as this is my home? My name is the first on the lease and I sign the rent checks.

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shewantstobebeautiful · 5 years

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Not what I signed up for

I didn't sign up for twins. Let alone stupid twins. The more I talk with Nick the more stupid I think he is sometimes. He is sure she isn't pregnant and that if she is it isn't his because he says "his pull out game is strong." I'm suddenly not so sure that Celia isn't knocked up. Off the top of my head I can think of five people I know who got pregnant from the pull out game. My most recent ex, my best friends little sister (twice), my sophomore year best friend, a close friend from senior year, and an old coworker I see at lot still. Back when I was a sophomore in high school, they drilled it into us in health class and my early childhood development class that the pull out method of birth control is the most ineffective method of “birth control” there is. Yet it seems everyone I know is playing the pullout game and wondering why they are getting pregnant.

I am so fed up with Nick and his mistakes right now. He done talked to his ma on break who basically said just what I did to him and got him thinking about what if it is his kid. He’s already kinda looking towards me and Patrick for help. I mean I get it, they have a smaller family than I do, and Patty and I are Nick’s only family in Illinois. But I've been saying since before I even got pregnant that I cannot deal with this bullshit anymore. That it's too much of a trigger for me yet my husband is his twin. So Patty is involved automatically, so there for I am as well by association. I didn't sign up for this shit. I’ve been trying to exclude myself from it, but I can’t no matter what I say or do. I’ve been blunt, I’ve been rude, I’ve been honest. None of it has worked.

If it turns out that Nick really did end up knocking Celia up, I'm honestly gonna make Patrick choose. I do not want anything to do with this situation. Nick won't be staying with us. We're not gonna be giving him money. I sure as hell ain't gonna be watching his kid or showing up at court if it comes to it. Nick can high tail it up to Wisconsin or call his mom to come down here to help him. But I'm past my wits ends with this boy and his drama and mistakes. I love him like a brother, don’t get me wrong, but my mental health matter and I know I can’t deal with this shit. Nor do I want to. Nor should I have to. And if it comes down to it, me and my son are what matter.

I’m praying it doesn’t come to this though and that this is just a venting to my overreacting brain post.

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