The House Sitter

Well, I had a good run of minimal depression. It seems the great beast was sunk its teeth into my chest once again. There I go, dragging my body, trailing behind little bits of flesh like a sad, meaty piñata.

I’m sad that I haven’t been keeping up with my very important blogging responsibilities. I wish I could say I’ve been busy, but the truth is I’ve just been unmotivated and sleepy.

Yesterday, I was driving and I had run a red light. I was 4 feet away from people crossing the street. An oncoming car nearly slammed into my driver’s side; had he not screeched this tires to a halt, I would have been hit. I just kept driving. I don’t know what I was thinking about that caused me to check out so severely.

I haven’t been sleeping very much. Food makes me nauseated. I’d much prefer to starve, so to speak, and feel the hunger pains as I lie in bed. My grandma asked me if I was sick yesterday. She said I look pale. I haven’t been eating and she said I look thin.

I feel like I’m one hundred people. I know I say this a lot, but I really don’t feel like I’m myself. At least, for the past week I’ve been feeling very alien to myself. I don’t even think I’m medicated.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Like many others, instead of celebrating, I wallowed. I cried like a bitch from midnight on. I held on to my body and wept not only for my stolen title as a mother, but wept for the mother I still haven’t met. I keep trying to tell myself to get over it, the loss, I mean. We’re past it. You’re fine now. Why are you still crying? I think of the would-be-toddler now, clutching at my bath robe in the morning. “Everything happens for a reason- you’re time will come- you’ll have a baby one day…” the words I’ve heard over and over, reverberating through the empty recesses of my maternity, never filling the void, never satisfying the open wounds. Meanwhile, my dear friend flaunts pictures of her newborn niece, “7 pounds, born on her due date! Look how cute she is!” What’s worse? The actual pain of not having my child- or the sick jealousy that consumes me and burns up any happiness I could have for another? I would like to be able to share in the joy of other women having healthy babies. Then, I return to selfishness.

My mental health is heading into such a deplorable state, I don’t know whether to cry for help, or stay quiet and surreptitiously implode. I feel like letting go. “Dear Goldie, thank you for watching the house while I’m gone. Please water the plants once a day. Trash goes out on Tuesday night. Oh, there’s food in the fridge, help yourself…”


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