I found an online evaluation test for postpartum depression and did it.
I did not qualify. I am just mildly depressed.
No big deal. I think I need more sunlight. Maybe more krill oil.Perhaps brie will be the cure (except I can’t eat brie now, Lyra is sensitive to cheese).
My heart literally bursts with joy over Lyra; and as it bursts open, sorrow flows and fills into the cracks.
I cannot forget.
I cannot forgive and let be that Ferdinand died.
R is looking into vasectomy. Reading Bon’s post on Dave’s unsuccessful attempt to get himself, erm, neutered, made me laugh and cry. Then I sat in a silent void and yelled out, “NO!”
I feel done.
And then I don’t feel done.
Truthfully, I feel so battered and bruised, physically, mentally, and emotionally. From Ferdinand’s death and from this last pregnancy, because it was so highly charged a good amount of the time.
Yet, I long. I yearn. I crave.
My nails desire to sink and claw into something, but I cannot find something appropriate to hurt. I am hurting.
I know, deep, deep within, that I will never ever feel done, because there is always this notion that there is one missing. I fear, if it is not because gestation is a long affair and it takes two to accomplish, I will be on a life-long quest to have another, and another, and another… because I want to fill that bottomless void. Because the abyss of loss can turn into a sick and crazy kind of obsession to fill it in.
Sometimes I envision myself at peace. Totally at peace. Glowing. Calm. Wise. Walking gracefully towards the sunset, with not a shred of regret.
I wish to be that vision, but right now, I am still struggling.
***I hope you all are keeping well. I haven’t been able to stop by often, nor do I have sensible, warm words for you, even though I wish I could do that. But you are never far from my thoughts. My heart throbs.