Letting it all out...

I don't know where to begin.

I have been a bad blogger. There are so many things swirling around in my head that as I sit down to get them out, it's so overwhelming and I give up. Most of them are depressing, I'm not gonna lie. There is so much shit to deal with, so many things I haven't admitted here, so many things I don't want people to know.

So I am going to admit it. I have postpartum depression. I was diagnosed 3 months ago, been bouncing around medications and dosages, and I still don't have it right, but it's close enough. I still have bad days however. Let me assure you, Cole isn't in danger. There is a distinct difference between PPD and postpartum psychosis. I had an inkling I would, since the OCD developed during pregnancy.

This is part of the reason I can't leave Cole. I once forced myself to go to the post office without him when he was about 4 months old. That was the last time I did it. I have major anxieties, which means I have walked away from almost everyone. If you weren't the one calling me, we weren't talking. I don't call anyone. The phone scares the beejebus out of me. What do I say? What are they *really* thinking about me while I'm talking? Are they just pretending to like me? And not only do I not call, I don't really pick up either. I fear driving. I fear going somewhere new. I don't even eat at new restaurants if I haven't been there before. I don't talk to strangers, and if I know I have to in a situation, I make Chris go with me. I have developed this HUGE insecurity about being liked and not being judged.

Another part is the anger. If I think you are judging me, I am angry. I've always had a temper. Now the fuse is shorter than ever. My family has never been a support system for me, and now I don't even want to be bothered with the shit they present. I stay away from them as much as humanly possible because I can't add their drama onto my plate. I have pretty severe OCD from the PPD. I can't stand mess. If I knew anyone that wanted my dogs, they would be gone in an instant because dogs are dirty (but I can't drop them off somewhere, I love them). I vacuum every day. I cannot have dishes in my sink. Nothing can be on my floor. I even went out and bought bookcases for Cole's toys downstairs because EVERY THING MUST HAVE ITS PLACE. I budget like you wouldn't believe.

On top of it all is that I don't have a support system. Of course I have Chris and some friends, but I don't want to burden people with this. I know it's my own issues and I don't want to make them anyone else's. In turn, I find myself practically becoming a hermit. My house is safe. Inside my house, I am myself. There is nothing to worry about (as long as it's clean...) and locked away from the outside world.

In case you couldn't tell, today is a bad day.

I want to leave the house, but I don't want to spend money. We need a new car. I need 4 doors. Cole has been growing through a size a month, and $50 a week in formula. I am so afraid of going broke. I am one pound under pre-pregnancy weight but 2 sizes up. I gained 30 pounds in the year it took to conceive Cole. I hate the way my body looks. I don't want to feel that way. I am afraid of having a daughter because of my body image issues. I can fake it really well, but your own child will see right through that. I want to have another child before Cole can remember a mom with postpartum depression. I don't want him to remember being in the house all the time. Another reason I hate my body, I'll be lucky to get 1 period by the time people have 2. I don't get chances to get pregnant every month. It's all a guessing game for timing. I don't want to have to TTC again. My body failed me with the miscarriage. My body failed my with Cole and cholestasis. My body is failing to even give me a legitimate chance of having another. My body has a 90% chance of failing my again in the next pregnancy with repeat cholestasis.

I try to remind myself every day of the bright side. If I hadn't miscarried, I wouldn't have Cole. If I didn't have cholestasis, I would have had a c-section, he would have been too big. My liver held my numbers down long enough to make it to 38 weeks, he could have been a preemie. My stretch marks are from creating my perfect son. My body gave life. I made him. And most days, just telling myself that is enough.

But some days, it's not. And those are the days I stay in the house, and lock all of that out.

There is much more swirling through my head, but the man has awoken from his morning nap...