The long road home.
Yesterday, while walking back from the "blue circle park", the double umbrella stroller we got from a friend fell apart. Totally. And me being me, I refused to leave it in the bushes or something, since that wouldn't exactly fall into place with my "don't litter, cause we aren't pigs" philosophy.
So I walked home with Vivian, Rosalyn, and this big stupid broken stroller. About half way home, while trying to keep Rosalyn out of the ditch, and out of traffic for about the 20th time, and trying to keep Vivian going in a forward motion, I lost it.
I totally, and utterly lost my freaking mind.
The scary thing was how similar this rage was to when I was in the midst of full PPD-it was blinding, painful and disturbing. I just wanted to throw one of them into traffic, I wanted to throw the stroller, or better yet, myself. I had one crawling almost on to the road in pursuit of something she picked up, one actively trying to run away, and this hulking stroller falling from my arms.
I saw white for the briefest of moments, and just wanted to sit down, and cry my bloody stupid eyes out.
It was a short moment, but it was frightening in it's intensity. And it was a flash back to a time when I was, well, freaking nuts.
I try not to admit to myself that I have these moments, times when all I want to do is scream at my children until my throat is raw and I cannot speak, and not because they are bad, because they aren't. But because I have this RAGE buried in my chest, rarely seen, well hidden, that is usually smothered in a smarmy layer of sadness. Yet some days, it yearns for release, just as I some days yearn to die.
I thought that after coming to terms with and dealing with my PPD, these moments would end. They didn't, since it turned out that I AM certifiably nuts, being diagnosed bipolar II. And again, I believed there would be a light at the end of the tunnel, that I would suddenly feel everything like normal, that it would be "sunshine and lollipops, and roses everyday."
It isn't. I don't want to kill my children anymore, but there are the usual days where I want to run and hide in the woods behind the house, or stick my thumb out on the highway and see how far I can get. Some days, I find myself calmly evaluating if today would be a good day to die, and how I might do it, sounding much like someone deciding what to eat for dinner. I catch myself staring at my wrists, wondering what keeps me from it.
I stood on the sidewalk screaming at my girls like a fishwife, and I immediately felt like shit over it. I remembered that feeling from when I screamed at my daughters as babies, their cries increasing in shrillness and fear. I felt on that sidewalk what I felt way back then "I can kill this, I want it gone."
But now, unlike then, it passes like a stray cloud against the sun, instead of lingering around my eyes for weeks. I can accept and move on from it, acknowledge my rage as a momentary lapse, and keep walking. I can remind my girls that I'm mad, but I love them, because it's not their fault that the stupid stroller doesn't work, or that my meds some days don't seem to do it for me, not completely, and I'm scared to try too many options, instead content with what seems like 90% of me.
The spectre of PPD will likely always haunt me, in quiet moments, in mad moments, when I'm alone and reading about the love others had for their babies. But it is, irrevocably, part of me, and always will be. And I tell myself, that despite this, I AM a good mother, that I love my children, and always will, even if the outset is a wee bit bumpy.
Sometimes life reminds me of my shortcomings, or my failures, and allows me to use them and stop and smell my roses, my girls. We took the long way home so Rosalyn could stop and touch nature, instead of the scary sidewalk on the busy road.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
So I walked home with Vivian, Rosalyn, and this big stupid broken stroller. About half way home, while trying to keep Rosalyn out of the ditch, and out of traffic for about the 20th time, and trying to keep Vivian going in a forward motion, I lost it.
I totally, and utterly lost my freaking mind.
The scary thing was how similar this rage was to when I was in the midst of full PPD-it was blinding, painful and disturbing. I just wanted to throw one of them into traffic, I wanted to throw the stroller, or better yet, myself. I had one crawling almost on to the road in pursuit of something she picked up, one actively trying to run away, and this hulking stroller falling from my arms.
I saw white for the briefest of moments, and just wanted to sit down, and cry my bloody stupid eyes out.
It was a short moment, but it was frightening in it's intensity. And it was a flash back to a time when I was, well, freaking nuts.
I try not to admit to myself that I have these moments, times when all I want to do is scream at my children until my throat is raw and I cannot speak, and not because they are bad, because they aren't. But because I have this RAGE buried in my chest, rarely seen, well hidden, that is usually smothered in a smarmy layer of sadness. Yet some days, it yearns for release, just as I some days yearn to die.
I thought that after coming to terms with and dealing with my PPD, these moments would end. They didn't, since it turned out that I AM certifiably nuts, being diagnosed bipolar II. And again, I believed there would be a light at the end of the tunnel, that I would suddenly feel everything like normal, that it would be "sunshine and lollipops, and roses everyday."
It isn't. I don't want to kill my children anymore, but there are the usual days where I want to run and hide in the woods behind the house, or stick my thumb out on the highway and see how far I can get. Some days, I find myself calmly evaluating if today would be a good day to die, and how I might do it, sounding much like someone deciding what to eat for dinner. I catch myself staring at my wrists, wondering what keeps me from it.
I stood on the sidewalk screaming at my girls like a fishwife, and I immediately felt like shit over it. I remembered that feeling from when I screamed at my daughters as babies, their cries increasing in shrillness and fear. I felt on that sidewalk what I felt way back then "I can kill this, I want it gone."
But now, unlike then, it passes like a stray cloud against the sun, instead of lingering around my eyes for weeks. I can accept and move on from it, acknowledge my rage as a momentary lapse, and keep walking. I can remind my girls that I'm mad, but I love them, because it's not their fault that the stupid stroller doesn't work, or that my meds some days don't seem to do it for me, not completely, and I'm scared to try too many options, instead content with what seems like 90% of me.
The spectre of PPD will likely always haunt me, in quiet moments, in mad moments, when I'm alone and reading about the love others had for their babies. But it is, irrevocably, part of me, and always will be. And I tell myself, that despite this, I AM a good mother, that I love my children, and always will, even if the outset is a wee bit bumpy.
Sometimes life reminds me of my shortcomings, or my failures, and allows me to use them and stop and smell my roses, my girls. We took the long way home so Rosalyn could stop and touch nature, instead of the scary sidewalk on the busy road.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Labels: bipolar, double strollers suck, PPD, Vivian Rosalyn
