It has finally happened. It was bound to happen. There was no other way. Unless someone managed to prove that I was not human, but a machine running on gas, or, for a more colorful and fictional rendition, my body absorbed and metabolized solar energy just like our good friend, super hero Super Man, unless this happened, it was to be expected that I would crack.
Two hundred fifty five nights of bad or, on (frequent) occasion, no sleep is what it takes to utterly defeat me. Starting yesterday at work, I could mentally see the fine webbing expand across my psyche. Then at night, snuggled between Copiloo, Hubyyloo and Catzeloo (we’re taking co-sleeping seriously, nobody gets left out), staring quietly and without breathing at the annoying lights streaming through the oddly-shaped window in our bedroom, I broke down and cried. Don’t ask me what exactly I was crying about, because I cannot tell you. But it’s very likely that I’d respond: “Everything”. It just feels like everything is wrong, nothing is how it was meant to be, I find all the struggles and stress around me unnecessary but yet I allow them to overwhelm me, I feel that the one thing I am good at – raising my son – turns out to be more than I can handle, and it pains me. I am pissed at myself for being weak.
Turning to face this little angel who finds everything he needs in my embrace, while Hubbyloo strokes my back without saying a word, I got a feeling of disappointment in myself, a sense of worthlessness that I cannot describe. I felt guilty for crying and letting Hubbyloo know I was struggling and unhappy; I mean, he’s short on sleep, too, and on top of that has to deal with the real stress his job brings about, the stress about supporting us and setting up a worry-free future for our son. Was I to have all those worries on my plate?… I would probably include a weeping session every morning with the Irish coffee that I would very likely start drinking.
Copiloo woke me up several times last night, like he always does; I cried myself to sleep each time; at 5am I had to hide behind the bathroom door and let out a healthy boo-hoo-hoo, before going back to bed. Unfortunately, that did not do it. I arrived at work this morning and midway through a conference call I burst into tears. I probably had a brief panic attack accompanying my tears, as weird sensations were populating my body. I texted Hubbyloo letting him know that I am not well and I am not sure what to do and to whom to turn. Obviously he offered to listen but I explained my reluctance: given what he has to put up with in his day-to-day, he’d probably just tell me to suck it up. On the contrary, he offered to take over the night routine with Copiloo so that I can go straight to sleep when I get home. I graciously declined (no, it’s not that I don’t trust him with the infant, although I know a lot of moms feel they need to keep an eye on daddy’s approaches to baby-related things); every time he handles Copiloo’s needs while I am around but busy doing something else, or perhaps simply exhausted after having already dealt with Copiloo for what must have felt like an eternity, I feel guilty and anxious wondering how long before Hubbyloo will get tired of Copiloo’s “high-demands” nature, throw his hands in the air and say “I give up.” So, just sitting there, supposedly “relaxing”, is never relaxing for me. Going to sleep? Ha! If I could only sleep on command. That is part of the problem. Copiloo wakes up for a brief moment, wails or whimpers half asleep, turns around a few times or starts nursing, but falls back asleep fairly fast. I, on the other hand, am left awake with all sorts of thoughts, to-do lists, anxiety about a job that I hate; I simply cannot go back to sleep, and what I usually do is pick up my phone and catch up on emails, facebook, HuffingtonPost.com etc.
Today Hubbyloo said that I need sleep and sleep I shall get. We will start with putting the nut away. The way he envisions things is as follows (this is exactly what he sent me over Skype, including the links to the images):
Hubbyloo: You need sleep, Horga. No more time playing with your Nut in bed.
Me: If nut is not in my hands, it does not mean I am sleeping.
Hubbyloo: You’re at the end of your rope, let the nut go for a bit.
A good nap and you are:
Yes, among many other things, Hubbyloo also calls me Scrat. And in this scenario, my phone is the Nut.
Bottom line, I am happy to have someone close to me to care and make me laugh. But I had to open up and let them help. For the first time in years (!!) I called my mom and let her hear me cry (I always try my hardest to keep my sorrows a secret from my parents, only because what are they gonna do from five thousand miles away? and I do not want to burden them with my generally short-lived discontent). Just the other day, I read a post of someone coming clean about her depression after months of gathering courage to do it. It was shame, fear that she’d be judged and her own weakness that prevented her for admitting to having a problem. The thing is, if you do not ask for help, people do not know you need it. Going through periods of weakness and vulnerability is nothing to be ashamed of; as for those who would judge you and what you are going through, they are not worthy of your time and energy so do not even think about the possibility of having to deal with them.
This too shall pass. Honestly, I do not believe it right now because of the funk I’m in, but that’s how it is. This too shall pass and everything will get back to being delicious.