Saturday, February 23, 2013

Disjointed and Over Analyzed Thoughts

We all know, without a doubt, I talk too much.  When I do talk.  I also have the horrible problem of thinking too much.  Analyzing, myself, too much. 

I've spent the better part of five months trying to figure myself out.  Which is really hard to do, by the way, when you spend a solid five months crying, uncontrollably, for no good reason what-so-ever. 

I tried to analyze why I couldn't stop crying.  Why, unless we actually had somewhere to be, I couldn't climb out of bed.  Why I couldn't just love my baby the way she deserved to be loved.  Why I couldn't pull myself together when there are so, so many other woman who have been through, are going through, my same situation; newborn baby, deployed husband, no family, busy friends. 

My kids, essentially, raised themselves for a solid four months.  Kyra learned how to make breakfast and lunch, for the both of them, with little supervision on those days I couldn't get there fast enough.  When school work got done, it was because of her own desire, she'd come to me only when stuck.  Lydia has learned how to be self sufficient when she can and ask Kyra for help, first, when she can't.  My girls have been all stars.

For some reason, in the last week of January, I happily climbed from under the covers with a new light in my eyes.  I made the girls breakfast, straitened this' and that's, sat on the couch and watched the girls play. 

I had tried before to do these things, but they were forced actions.  This time, though, this time was natural.  Enjoyable. 

I don't know what it was to cause my funk.  Lack of sleep?  Crappy situation?  Hormones?

I know I haven't gained a whole lot more sleep than before.  Sure, Ruby's not waking like a newborn, anymore, but neither is she sleeping through the night. 

I've been a single parent before, with Kyra.  I've had a baby who refused to sleep before, with Lydia.  I've had no help before.  I've done this before, but not all at the same time. 

Hormones are a tricky thing.  Mine have always had a nice wack-a-do way about them.  They fuck with my cycle, they fuck with my mind, they fuck with my body.  I'd like to be rid of them, honestly.  They've caused me nothing but problems since puberty.  But like I've said before, I never wanted to off myself like I did after Kyra's birth.  Though, I couldn't bring myself to love and dote on my new baby, the way I did with Lydia.  So was this postpartum? 

That day in January, the one where I woke up with a renewed spring in my step, came again the next morning.  And then a third. 

On that third day, I got a text message from a local friend, checking up on me.  I remember replying back something along the lines of, "I've managed to pry my eyes open for three days now.  Today, though, I look around my house and wonder what the fuck happened here."

My house was beyond a mess.  Bathrooms, disgusting.  Cobwebbed corners.  Nary a place to sit or eat for nearly all available surface space had a pile of something waiting to be put away. 

I can't help but wonder why I never bothered to ask for help. 

I have a friend who, I swear, pays for nearly nothing in this world.  She goes through life gabbing on about things she's looking for or needs, casual conversation-like, and people just hand their things over to her.  I've fallen to her trap and handed her more than my fair share of, "Oh, I have one of those you can have," moments. 

I was listening, last night, to her tell me about something else she had received for free.  I couldn't tell you, now, what it was, but I quickly fired off, "You know.  You have no problem saying, 'Yes, please,' which amazes me because I have no problem saying, 'No, thank you.'" 

The look on her face, I could tell I totally just offended her.  And I can't blame her look, I absolutely spoke my thought as it entered my brain. There was no filter-effect. Nothing stopped the thought from pouring through my open pie-hole.

I continued on, trying to save some semblance that I'm not an ass hole.  "Someone offers you something and you have no problem saying, 'Yes, please.'  Whenever someone offers me something I don't have the ability to say 'Yes, please,' its always, 'No, thank you.'" 

And it's true.  I've had countless people tell me, if I needed anything, please let them know.  I can tell you, in all honesty, I've never asked for anything (that I can recall). 

My friend, who just had her third baby, has had three baby showers.  One for each kid. 

And I recently attended a baby shower for another friend who was having her sixth child. 

I have had three kids, so far, and never had a baby shower.  It never dawned on me, until recently, so it's not like it was ever a big deal in my mind. 

Both of these friends have also had other friends set up a meal plan thing where people bring them meals so they don't have to cook. 

Yet another thing I've never experienced but once, when a girl from church asked if there was anything she could do to help out after I had Ruby.  I told her, of course, "No.  But thank you for offering!" She retorted back with, "Let me know when you come home and I'll bring something over for supper one night."  I told her about Lydia and how hard it is for people to cook for her and not to worry about it, but this girl insisted.  She was making supper for the rest of us and we could supplement something for Lydia.  It turned out to be the one of the best meals I've ever had.  And she even brought both a green salad as well as a fruit salad hoping Lydia might get to enjoy some of the splendor. 

I've had a different friend both offer, then flat out tell me she's going to watch a child or two here and there.  She would come over, in the beginning, to sit with me.  Give Ruby a bath.  Help out with supper dishes.  I was grateful for the help and enjoyed the company.  I know if I asked for more, she would say, "Yes," but I never do. 

Once again, I don't know what it is about me that I don't know how to ask for help.  Neither do I know what it is that (most) people think I'm some kind of amazing super woman.  I get lots of compliments about how they (the person) can't believe how I do what I do.  I'm not sure how I make it look so effortless when half the time I was dying inside. 

No one, who sees me in real life seem to know how badly I hurt.  That I truly was dying on the inside.  I must have an amazing, exterior cover.  And clearly they never read this blog because those five of you who do all sent me comments with virtual hugs, emails full of advice or phone numbers saying I can call whenever I need to talk.  I've said thank you for the hugs.  Back peddled with the emails because I was JUST FINE.  Picked up the phone to call, only to find a half-assed excuse why I'd do it later, which never comes.

I'm in a better place now.  I've been here for a month.  I'm trying to get Kyra caught up on both complimentary praises as well as school work, showering Lydia with I love you's and dote on Ruby the way she deserves. 

Still, I can't figure out why I was the way I was.  I feel this need to know, though.  Its as if, if I know the how's and why's, I can prevent it from happening again.  Make myself a better self, if not for me than for my kids.  They deserve a better Mom than what they had. 

I don't know if I'll ever be able to ask for help.  Clearly it's not one of my stronger character traits.  I do think that if I had more help, a meal, a sitter, company, conversation, it would have helped. 


  1. I am so glad you're pulling out of the funk. Wish I could be just around the corner so I could pop in and visit as often as I'd like to!

    1. Me, too. No one ever seemed to have the urge to come over, unannounced, sit and look at my four walls the way you did. (And still do. :) I love you. You really are the best friend, ever. Ever-ever.

  2. I think part of the inability to ask for help is related to the depression itself. Bad moods like to perpetuate themselves. They actively suppress activities that could lessen their hold on your mind. I'm talking like moods have a separate entity, but when I was depressed, there were times when I was convinced that something was fighting against my desire to recover, trying to sap my hope of having a sound and happy mind again.

    So let's take a preventative measure. Send me your number, and I'll try to call you.