the post-birth story

I had a baby.

Three months ago today, in fact. Time goes by awfully quickly.

It has taken me this long to get back to writing. The easy way around it would be to blame how busy things are -- because life with a baby is certainly busy. But that's not the reason. I would have found the time to write if I had been able to write.

I wanted to have my birth story written down while it was still pretty fresh in my mind. I know I will treasure that story for the rest of my life, but I've got to admit it: I was basically forced at gunpoint to write it. Joey poked + prodded me along until finally I sat down to write [+ write, + write], but I had no desire to do it.

I had no desire to do anything, really.

Yes, you've guessed it by now, I'm sure.

Post-partum depression.

Of course, given my past, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

And despite my continued promises otherwise, I kept it bottled up as best I could while living with two people who know me as well as my husband + Alyssa. Alyssa was out a lot from the time the baby was born until the end of September, so I didn't have to do much pretending there. Joey was more aware, I'm sure, than I give him credit. I myself tried to stay as unaware as I possibly could.

The truth is, I felt cheated.

Cheated out of the most precious time a mother can spend with her baby.

Cheated out of the instant love + bond I was supposed to feel.

When Rowan was taken from me, moments after she breathed her first raspy, grunty breaths, at first I thought it was kind of a good thing. I had a few moments to myself to process what had just happened, for my introverted self to recharge after five hours spent in a room with people + one hour of intense labour + twenty-five minutes of pushing.

In the days that followed Rowan's birth, I came to know that despite the extra sleep I was able to get, those first eleven hours my baby spent in an incubator were not good for me. Not good in the slightest. I struggled for weeks to really bond with my little girl, some days not even feeling as though I'd had a child -- and if I had, this one in my arms certainly wasn't mine.

If I'm being completely honest, I've got tears streaming down my face just thinking about it all.

On top of my battle to bond with this child, I was dealing with an immense amount of guilt. Guilt for not being able to get the housework done or cook meals. [Even now I find myself doing the vast majority of the housework simply because I feel too guilty about asking for help.] Guilt for spending time doing the bit of housework I was able to do instead of spending that precious time with my baby. Worst of all, guilt for sometimes not even caring that I was spending time doing other things instead of wanting to cuddle this little girl.

Three months later, I'm doing much better.

I'm able to admit that I've been dealing with these issues, despite my deep shame in feeling the way I have toward this tiny, beautiful being.

I'm able to get up in the morning, excited to see the girl I've missed through the night.

I'm able to look at her all day long, no matter her disposition, and tell her that I love her -- and mean it from the deepest part of me.

I'm able to write.