Urban Drool

Before I am “approved” to continue onto either individualized or group therapy at the health center where I am seeking help I am required to undergo a 2 part intake process, the first part of which I completed last week with a chirpy young counselor named Wendy.

The majority of the bajillion questions I answered were rather standard and expected – along the lines of “have you harbored any unusual thoughts of harming your baby?” and “what is your insurance group ID number?”

..to which I answered “isn’t any thought of harming your baby unusual?....um, no I have not.” and “BAF649817, “ respectively.

We plowed through query after tedious query:

“Have you noticed any changes in your appetite?” – No.

“Are you currently taking any pharmaceuticals, either legally prescribed or otherwise?” – um…no. Should I be?

She then asked me a question that gave me, shall we say, pause.

“Have you been experiencing any feelings of anger?”

….blinkgaspemptystare….

And the air in the room suddenly became very difficult to breathe.

It was a concept that I had not given a great deal of focus to the past few months, but as soon as she said the word “anger,” a tremendous anger filled me. It was horrible.

Yes, yes I am angry. I am so, so angry.

I thought I was sad (which I certainly am, to an extent). I thought I was worried and paranoid (not so much right now). And I may be these things to certain degrees on certain days. But it became evident to me, at the moment chirpy counselor girl Wendy asked me that particular question, that indeed, the primary horribleness in me is anger. I hadn’t even realized it until just then.

I am angry that Lucy’s birth was so completely not what I wanted nor what I had prepared myself for. Naïve, stupid, STUPID me.

I am angry that people want me to “just get over it” and “not focus on that anymore” because “the birth really does not matter.” To which I say: bullshit. The birth matters so incredibly much.

I am angry that I had to leave her and go back to work 42 hours a week when she was only 5 weeks old. That I was not done healing to any extent, but it did not seem to matter to anyone.

I am angry at every single pregnant woman I see. Anywhere. I am angry because I am so bitterly jealous. Because more than anything, I want to go back in time to the few days leading up to the week I had the baby, so I can “do it right.” And any woman currently expecting a baby has that chance. The chance to do it right. A chance I am not going to have, ever again.

I am angry at my sister’s best friend. Who is a wonderful woman. Who has been like another sister to me since I was 11 years old. Because she just gave birth to her first child this past Thursday. 1 day past her due date. With no dialation or effacement of any kind, they still decided to induce her. And, after 18 hours of relatively easy labor and a nice epidural, she easily birthed her first child. And was home with him 36 hours later. And I am so angry at her for having a first time birth that I will never have.

I am angry at the very sweet and kind girl in my office who is currently 24 weeks pregnant. See previous two points above as to the reason why. Every time she walks by my desk to go to the Ladies Room (approximately 2 times per hour, she IS 24 weeks people) I see her rounded little belly and I want to yell at the top of my lungs.

I am angry that no one seems to care how miserable I am. Everyone is all concerned and fussy and happy and pampering you when you are pregnant. And when you are in labor. But literally…the very SECOND the baby is born, you cease to matter to anybody in any capacity. No one wants to hear any longer about how hard it was to endure 2-3 days of pitocin saturated labor with no pain relief and then to be suddenly strapped to a table and cut open and then the baby is there and…and…Lumi? What Lumi? Who’s that? Is she the mom? Oh…you mean the USELESS VESSEL THAT GESTATED THIS GORGEOUS ANGEL BABY BUT WHO COULD NOT EVEN MANAGE TO PUSH IT OUT.

(see what I mean? Ugly and unreasonable anger)

I am angry that some days I don’t even feel like a “real” mother. That, much as I want to, I don’t have the TIME to perform as a “real mother.” I feel like a robot. A machine that provides money and milk. That is my primary function in my family. I need to make money and milk. And the really hysterical thing is that I cannot seem to provide adequate amounts of either of these things. Evidence to support this: at least twice a week, the Boy will either

a) complain that we don’t ever have enough money in the account or
b) ask me how much milk I managed to pump that particular day or
c) sigh and comment that he STILL needs to make up a few ounces of formula a day to supplement the breastmilk that seems to disappear by noon or
d) all of the above

Money and Milk. These are the things I struggle to provide so that the Boy can stay home and mother the baby.

But most of the time? I am angry at myself. I am SO angry at myself. I have not found a way yet to see myself as anything but inadequate. I could not birth my baby naturally and gently. I could not stop myself from nearly bleeding to death when she was a mere 4 hours old. I still cannot keep her on 100% breastmilk. I cannot buy her every single thing I want her to have. I cannot be there 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I cannot be filled with sunshine and joy and birdsong all the time, because I am still infected with this anger, and I fear that she will somehow sense it. I don’t always know what every cry means. I cannot be the best mother in all the world, and because I cannot be the best, I somehow feel that I am therefore wholly inadequate.

I am angry at myself and I am also angry that I am angry.

Oh, yes, I have been experiencing feelings of anger.

------------------------------------------

I am NOT, however, angry at the writers of HBO’s DEADWOOD and the bad-ass wondernous that is Ian McShane. Boy’s Howdy was last night’s episode fucking fantastic!

It sure did make a girl’s Sunday night.