I’m just going to start typing and see where this post ends up.
But just a little forewarning, it’s not going to be pretty.
For weeks now, I’ve been feeling like there’s something . . .wrong. I’m not sure that I can do it justice by trying to explain it. I just feel . . .unhappy. And I don’t know why.
I have a wonderful husband, a beautiful child, and a (at least I hope) secure job. What do I really have to complain about? Why do I feel this way?
It’s almost like I’m going through the motions. I get up at 5:00, spend an hour on the treadmill or elliptical, shower, get Maggie up and dressed, get ready for work, eat breakfast, and head out the door. After work, I come home, throw a load of laundry in, play with Maggie for 45 minutes or so, put her to bed, then Mike and I make dinner, clean up, wash that day’s bottles and make them for the next day, pack my lunch, and then either fold laundry or pay bills or clean or whatever until I collapse into bed. Just to get up and do it all over again the next day. And the next day.
As regimented as I am (or try to be) about certain things, maybe I’m struggling with such a predictable routine. Maybe this is too much of a routine. All the spontaneity is gone. Mike and I can’t go out to dinner during the week because Maggie goes to bed so early and there’s not enough time (and we don’t DARE keep her up later than she wants to be—we’ve made that mistake before). And I really don’t even want to go out to dinner, because what fun is it to sit in a restaurant when I could be rolling around on the floor with Maggie at home? There are times when I run errands after work, but then I feel guilty because that cuts into the little amount of time I have with Maggie. So I feel like I’m never home, but yet I feel housebound at the same time. It used to be on the drive home from work, I’d wonder what we were going to do that night. Now, I don’t have to wonder. I know. Down to the minute.
I find myself crying at the drop of a hat, over stupid things. Like, REALLY stupid things. Things that I’m too embarrassed to write about. I struggled a little with crying jags after Maggie was born—the hormonal kind. But these are different. Where I was once more likely to laugh at something, now I’m more likely to be upset at it. It’s like all of the humor has been leeched out of me. I’m just getting through each day and onto the next.
Maybe this will all change once spring comes. Already there’s a little daylight left when I leave work each day, and I know it’s just a matter of time before the sun will be shining brightly and the flowers will be in bloom. Maybe that’s all it will take.
But in the meantime, do I just continue on through the next month. Two? What if I don’t feel better once the weather’s a little nicer?
I’ve also been struggling with panic attacks, or at least what I think are panic attacks. I all of a sudden feel helpless and claustrophobic. Like the walls are closing in on me but I’m too frozen to escape. Trapped. I break out into a cold sweat, get dizzy, and then a minute or two later, I’m fine. And every time I have one, I think it’s the last one. That they’ll go away. And then I have another one.
So I don’t know where I’m going with this. I’m not asking for help, or advice, or anything. I’m just . . .venting I guess. And hoping I come back to read this in a few weeks or a month and laugh about how silly I was.
And I’m not going to go back and re-read this now. I’m just going to hit “publish”.