Only this week, I began to write about how I have been suffering, and beating (I hope) depression since giving birth. It isn't gone away but it has been much more manageable over the last month. The sneaky thing about depression though, is you never quite know when it's going to tackle you back down.
Yesterday I woke up and it was as if I was waking within a dream. And not a nice one. Adrenaline coarsed through my veins, my body poised on the edge of a panic attack and I simply felt nothing. It was as if I was looking down on my life; it felt like I was no longer living it. That girl going about her daily business and taking care of the baby-it didn't seem to be me. I felt drained, ambivalent and for no explicable or rational reason, a failure. It was if a naughty cricket was living on my shoulder whispering things in my ear. I couldn't barely summon the energy to engage with my beautiful girl who happily dismantled a once (vaguely) tidy living room into chaos and leafed through all the noisiest books. I wanted to hold out and press her tightly to me, to laugh and play and sing. I wanted to curl up and hide from everyone and everything and not to have to think anymore.
Today is a much better day. I woke up and auto-pilot lifted the squalling baby trying to crawl through the cot bars, and headed into the living room. As everyday, I switched the radio and kettle on, poured milk for Wriggles and coffee for me. I showered, and dressed us both and we even got the bus on time for our weekly hydrotherapy session. It has been much better than yesterday. I've been in the moment, still tired, but manageably. I sang and laughed and played horses and tickled and kissed and bathed.