I didn’t know how to express the feelings I experienced. Hell, they barely felt like feelings. They felt like exhaustion, commitment, obligation. It was slogging and difficult work.
Anything and everything I had done in my life for the past eight years I revisited with tweezers and magnifying glass scrutiny. How could I have changed the outcome? Why didn’t I have the outcome I thought I wanted. How could I go back and change everything?
I began having dreams where I could time travel and now-me would tell past me to make little changes.
I would wake up because I couldn’t breathe.
My apartment felt confining, constricting. I ran outside just to breathe more than once. I had waking nightmares of dropping Myrna. At those times I would look into the side crib, assure myself that everything was alright, and then stay up for hours just watching Myrna breathe. She was here, she was safe.
I hadn’t forgotten to feed her or change her diapers. I hadn’t left her someplace and then not been able to remember.
I started to look up my foibles so many times. Each time I either couldn’t complete filling out the search field, or I would not click on the links.
When I finally clicked on one of the links I fell down a rabbit hole of patient cure thyself bull. Blogs that looked like they had useful articles denied the existence of postpartum depression, others tried to sell me essential oils to get out of my funk. And too many of them assumed I had a partner who could help me with my burden of guilt.
©2019 Lulu M. Sylvian,currently untitled from the Phantom Stars Trilogy