I got a catalog in the mail to the house yesterday for the new Lands’ End clothing line, Canvas.
And I’m loving it. I mean really, really, really loving it. I should probably, like, do work but I’d rather fantasy shop.
Who needs work? I have a whole new wardrobe awaiting me.
It’s got a very comfortable chic to it.
I could wear it to work, taking the kids to school, Church, and just schlepping around in something other than my trusty jeans or black yoga pants.
I’m wondering if it’s healthy to do this much fantasizing about being properly dressed in public. By proper I mean in clean clothing that hasn’t been worn everyday for the last 6 months by me upon running errands. Clothing that I didn’t find in a ball on the floor & decide it was OK to wear yet AGAIN!
No wonder the kids are starting to act like they don’t know me when we are out in public & we see friends.
Now that I’m thinking about it maybe I need to go shopping for real.
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by beth on February 28, 2010
in in life
When I was very young I wanted to wear glasses. I thought it was “cool” to have a pair. I have no idea why. Because now that my glasses are the first thing I grab in the morning & the last thing I take off at night I’m not sure I want them EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE!!
I use to wear contacts more, but when I was in my last trimester with Mr. J my eyes got so dry that I couldn’t stand wearing them. With breastfeeding, lack of sleep and the subsequent years of pregnancies, breastfeeding and lack of sleep I have not been able to wear them.
But sometimes I pretend to not have them.
Note the glasses are on my head because right after taking this picture I had to put them back on.
Or I might have mistaken a wall for Hubby & kissed it.
Which would have been embarrassing because let’s be honest I’m SO outta the wall’s league.
Really I would have been kissing down. Given it is a wall & all.
(1960’s photo of Moi is courtesy of Mr. J)
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It’s been a while since I wrote my kiss off letter to postpartum depression & I’m still not 100%. I’m better than I was, I’m stronger & have more perspective but 100% I am not. I’m close, really close to being able to just be me again all the time. But there are days I still work at trying to kick this bastard to the curb & he keeps trying to claw his way back to my door. It’s also weird because even as I write this I wonder if I should hit publish when I’m done. I don’t know why it’s still hard to write about or even talk about, but it is.
Even after wrote the PPD letter I felt a wave of shame wash over me. Like I had failed as a mother, I was a cliche. Here I was going into my thirties, with kids, and a cliche. A medicated mother struggling to be normal. Whatever the hell normal means. I think it means not wanting to fall asleep in a bathtub of water face down. Not because you want to die, but because you are TIRED. Tired of your body not feeling like your own, tired of feeling like you can’t make it through a day without crumbling into a ball of tears, tired of wondering why, and just plain tired.
AND I was so tired. I remember laying down in the tub, shower on my back and just feeling like I could fall asleep there. I didn’t want to die, no, I wasn’t there yet. Thankfully I wasn’t there. But I was feeling like getting out of that tub was too hard. I knew then that I needed help. The possibility that I would go into the rabbit hole and never come out haunted me. I couldn’t escape that haunting fear and when Hubby confronted me, tears in his eyes, fear in his voice, his loving hand gentle against the small of my back, I had to face it.
I face it still.
I do so because it is worth it.
I am worth it & I love myself.
Also, more than anything in this world love I them.
I love these wonderfully beautiful people I’ve been blessed to have in my life.
I love him.
I love him.
I love her.
I love him.
I love him. He is my rock.
I thank God daily that I’m able to be awe struck every moment of every day by these gifts I’ve been given. I know that I can’t give myself to anyone else if I want to lay down in a tub to sleep or am swinging a bag of frozen meat at a book shelf. Oh, I didn’t share that story? Trust me once you swing frozen meat at a book shelf (poor, helpless, defenseless book shelf) it’s clear you need help. I needed help, I got it.
And so I’m looking forward to next month, one year post-baby, months after seeking help and I’m still here.
That bastard PPD can try his best to get me to take him back, but I’m not giving in.
I am not giving in. Not today.
I am not giving in. Not tomorrow.
I am not giving in. I’m here for long haul. I’m here to stay.
So, SUCK IT Postpartum Depression. SUCK.IT.
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