Friends, I read your birth stories. I do. And I still am that asshole who doesn’t comment on them, or at least not much. I mark them “unread” so that I will come back when I can clear my head; I leave them open in my browser for days.
I thought it would be better after the Bean was born and I wasn’t scared anymore. (And I’m not scared anymore — at least not much. I would do it again, though I’m not sure that’s in the cards.) For a little while, when I was still high on survival, it was better. But now it’s worse again.
I hope someday I’ll be able to read about birth being overwhelmed by feeling that I didn’t do a very good job, that everyone else is better at this than I am, than I could be. You are so strong and so brave and so capable and beautiful. I don’t want to feel that you aren’t those things, but the internal comparison is brutal.
Probably being home with a sick, miserable Bean and having been stuck inside all week, thanks to my migraine and his cold and the cold outside, and being smushed by the PMS Monster (which really has been worse since the Bean was born, I think, or maybe it’s just that before he came I could blame the misery on not being knocked up) and the attendant maybe-I-just-wasn’t-meant-to-have-children head-echo isn’t helping, and I should have a little sense of proportion and not hit “post,” but I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care about the stories or about you.
I know I should just get over it, but I can’t. It occurs to me that maybe part of the reason I can’t seem to get that recovery post written is that I don’t feel all that recovered.