I've passed exhausted and have arrived at desperate. The sleep deprivation with the anxiety kept me awake last night, my body tensed and my mind racing. This morning the hubster was home from work and helped with B.B. but didn't leave me to my rest (see GIF above) which lead to angry outbursts and subsequently darkness.
Last night I was scratching myself with tweezers and this morning the harmful soothing continued with matches and scissors. Eventually the suicidal fantasies began and while not quite a full-fledged attempt, something like it occurred. A white flag? A plea? I didn't really plan it out or really try to succeed, but I ended up in the hallway clutching a plastic bag. In my weak mind's fantasy I could tape the bag around my head, cuddle into bed and simply drift off, dissolve into nothingness as I've so often yearned.
But I froze when I saw the baby sleeping in my room. I couldn't do it with him there. I couldn't move. The hubster noticed my activity from his place on the couch, set aside his work laptop and upon assessing the situation rushed past me, transferring Baby Bananaface to his crib in the other room. He returned to wrench the bag from my hands and supervise me, resuming his work via laptop sitting on the bed next to me.
My body was painfully clenched as I lay on my side, feeble tears dripped onto my desperately clenched hands that were shoved under my face. I mumbled and muttered a weak begging mantra, "Please, get me a bag. Please, just get me a bag."
Eventually I slept.
More angry words. More desperation. Eventually I couldn't sleep or rest anymore and took a shower around 1:00 PM, finally eating and drinking around 2:00 PM. Speaking with the hubbo, my voice is small and quiet. I feel weak and ashamed. I know it's not all my fault, it's the illness, but I feel penitent, as if the horrible episode were selfish indulgence.
The sitter is here to help with baby but I don't think that she helps, he cries nearly the entire time. I haven't seen him for a few hours, tucked away here the bedroom. I don't feel compelled to intervene as I usually do but it still pains me to hear him cry. I suppose that's a good sign.
I have an appointment on Sept. 1st with a clinic that specializes in postpartum care but it feels so far away. The sleep deprivation, the anxiety, the painful, sticky thoughts about my family and the feeling of abandonment and worthlessness hangs over me. There are decent moments but so much of my day takes place under shadow.
I'm still slugging along but it feels so messy, like everyone else is in the desirable areas of the Candy Land board and I'm stuck in the swamp-what is it? chocolate? molasses? I always wanted to be the ice cream queen, clean white and blue, similar to the Snow Queen from the Shelley Duvall's Faerie Tale Theatre, my favorite episode. Whenever we went to the library on base I would race over to the VHS section and search for it, renting it over and over. You'd think that Elsa from frozen would've appealed to me, following this chain of images, but no.
Also loved the image of the angel food cook lady from this cartoon... funny the images that stick with us from childhood? So strong after all these years.
The rain is gone. The sun is back. Insult to injury as far as I'm concerned.