Yesterday was Mother’s Day and I started writing a very depressed blog about how crap I was feeling. I was relating myself to drowning in a swamp of sadness and I couldn’t pull myself out.
However like all awesome mental illnesses, I fell asleep while typing yesterday’s entry and woke up today much better. I can’t predict when my brain is going to gang up on me. I can’t understand why it gangs up on me. Yet here I am and there it is, fighting me from within.
I’m trying to understand why certain days act as triggers. I deactivated my Facebook account for a few hours yesterday. My friends are mostly mums. They post wonderful stories of becoming mothers and cherishing the day their babies entered their lives.
And here I am and there they are. Completely paralleled. Instead of blissful memories of holding a squishy, lovable newborn. There I was so removed from the situation, that when I recall looking at her, I really didn’t feel anything. I just did what I had to do in order to mother her, because nobody else was there to be her mum.
I’m still battling flashbacks. It’s the same one over and over. Virtually gagged by the horror of the situation unfolding above me in the reflective coating of the operating theatre light. Feeling so desperately removed from what should have been the most amazing moment of my life. Here was this little, tiny, perfect baby girl, made with such love and nurtured to the best of my ability. And all I could do was look at her completely dumbfounded. Still traumatised by what I felt and saw.
Fear is still a huge part of me. I’m so tired of bring fearful. I don’t want to be scared anymore. I want to be able to confidently know that my brain is not going to gang up on me. I’m told this isn’t forever. I want to believe that PTSD is something I can recover from. Just right now, I don’t believe I can recover. I don’t believe I’ll ever get better.