This weeks Girl-Talk Thursday is about heart ache and heart break.
I know the first thought that comes to mind with heart ache is the opposite sex. But I’d like to go somewhere a little different today.
I was 22 years old when my son was born. A month after his birth, my husband was (honorably) discharged from the Marines, and we drove from California to Wisconsin. We had two vehicles, so I was driving, too.
My sister, Aunty S., generously flew out to help us with the drive back. And that may have saved my sanity, because Baby Truck was anti-carseat.
And then we moved into the in-laws place.
And did I mention I had postpartum depression after Miss Question was born?
You would think that will that info, I would have been better prepared, sought help early on. Yeah. Apparently, I’m a slow learner.
Truck had trouble with breastfeeding from the start. He couldn’t seem to latch on. Then my supply decreased. And here I was, in the in-laws house, trying to feed my son discretely in the bedroom, while entertaining a toddler.
My husband temporarily lost his sanity, and thought he was 19 and responsibility-free again. Help was not forthcoming from that quarter.
And eventually, I wound up switching to formula. I felt like such a failure. Which only added to the problem.
For six months, I lived life in a daze. I showed up for work when I had to, and watched, fed and bathed the kids. But I did it in a very detached manner.
It wasn’t until after we moved out of the in-laws, and the big, ugly mess that had been building at work (did I mention that not only were we living there, we were both working for them, too? On what planet did we think that was a good idea??) erupted, that I began to realize what was going on.
It took a massive fight with the in-laws, a frustrated vent from TheMan, and a gentle suggestion from my mother before I went in to the doctor.
After a few weeks on the medication, I was able to look around and see the difference.
And I cried that night. I cried all night, that night.
It broke my heart that *I* had subjected my family to that not once, but twice. Two times I put my daughter through that. My son only had to deal with it once, but I worry that it affected him.
His dad wasn’t home most of the time, he was either working out of state, or off partying.
So when Truck talked late, I blamed myself. The fact that his sister went through the same thing, and talked early was disregarded.
When he refuses to cuddle, kiss, or hug, I wonder, “Is he being a normal two year old, or did I psychologically screw him up by being so detached during those six months?”
Intellectually, I know he’s fine. I know they are both fine, and that if they even noticed at that age, the scars would be minor.
In my heart, I wonder, I worry, and I cry.
The heart break I experienced that first night I cried, was worse than what any male has ever put me through.
Slightly Similar Nonsense:
- Another Boy
- Conversations with a 4 year old
- My Heart Is Tired
- Master of Non-Verbal Communication
- Heart Breaker