Seven Month Itch

At the seven month mark, my mental health seems to be in flux. It’s interesting that it was so difficult for the first three weeks and then way less difficult for a while (still difficult, though), and now it feels almost the same as it did in the beginning. I feel insecure, overstimulated, low energy, restless. 

Maybe it’s that I haven’t been exercising as much as I was a month ago. Maybe I need to lift weights instead of exclusively jostling my body around my neighborhood for runs. Maybe it’s the change in seasons. Maybe it’s that my output doesn’t feel up to par, and that felt okay in winter, but it doesn’t feel okay now. Maybe I feel stagnant. Maybe it’s poor sleep making me dull and scattered. Maybe it’s feeling like a 9th grader pretending to be a therapist in some of my sessions - how am I to help any single person, I wonder? Maybe it’s that I’m nursing less often because she needs it less often, and my hormones have changed. Maybe I can expect to start menstruating again soon.

Or all of the above. 

Either way, I sobbed yesterday while trying to get running clothes on, ran, and came back despondent, which was still an improvement. 

It’s the cycle of feeling too much and then feeling very very much about feeling too much in the first place. 

Caretaking is hard even when it’s the most meaningful thing in the world. 

A childlike part of self is pouty pretty often. The other night, I noticed this part decide that it wanted to start crying so that my partner would see how distressed I was and, I guess, feel bad for me or like he needed to take care of me. 

The other parts that desperately want to be seen as competent/independent/not-that were pretty revolted once they noticed it. Justify, deny, insist. 

As I recall it now, there is a little bud of compassion that I am willing to nurture.

Poor little one, deep down - or not so deep down these days. You remind me of my daughter. She reminds me of you. 

I notice a paradox in my body of wanting to be separate from all sensation but feeling calm wash over me when she relaxes in my arms. I don’t always know what to do with it. 

There is an ache in my abdomen that has gotten steadily more persistent over the last week. I hope the temporary solution is bright red release. I ache to feel like “mother” again and less like “ball of live wires.” 

A week ago, my own mother looked at me warmly as I comforted my daughter after she surprised herself by tumbling from a prone position onto her back. “You’re a good mom,” she suddenly said. It meant a lot, though I noticed resistance to it. I don’t know if I am reliably good, but I suppose I am determined. 

Otherwise, my girl is growing steadily and my love alongside her. She smiles, she laughs, she reaches for comfort. She spreads her arms against me and leans her chest into mine, nuzzling into my neck. She explores with her hands, scrutinizing everything. She demands to be taken outside every day, more than once, or she will complain of boredom. I like the person she is growing into. I don’t always know what to do, but she keeps growing up anyway. There’s some comfort in that.

Let it settle itself. Let it settle itself.

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