Postpartum.
This is my fourth encounter of you, and I have succumbed to your oppressive and depressing grasp, once more. I loathe you, joy-stealer. You take my sleep, you fog my logic, and your tears blur my beautiful, new reality. Your grip punctures my delicate heart like barbed wire, and days of new-baby bliss are oftentimes distorted into exhaustive and emotional confusion, in the mere blink of my tear-stained eyes. My thoughts are unbridled and contradicting; I question all that I know about motherhood and my ability to love my children... and myself again.
I knew you were coming--you wreaked havoc here before--but I am always caught by surprise. You allow me only a few days of uninterrupted joy with God's precious new creation, before you barge into my heart and head with your tumultuous, wrecking ball of a presence. In a room filled by the warmth and love of family and dear friends, you make me feel alone. They ask if I am okay, but you and I know my answer is dishonest. There really are no words to help explain my state of... whatever you are. I fail at expressing how you change me; the best description I can muster is weird. Abnormal. Lonely. Ugly.
You take advantage of the fatigue, of the achy and recovering body, of the mama who no longer feels pretty. The previous months of "glowing" are swiftly overshadowed by untoned and stretch mark-ridden skin, bulky feminine products, and soggy nursing pads. In the middle of the night, your imbalanced hormones leave me drenched in cold sweats; I find no comfort in my damp, chilly sheets. Soon, your physical toll will be evident in the clumps of hair clogging our shower drain. Though I return to wearing pre-maternity clothing, you prevent me from feeling like my old self. I am unfamiliar with this new me. I stare into the mirror and see your damage; my reflection looks forlorn.
My children still find comfort in my embrace, while I feel awkward in my own skin. The youngest ones beg to "hold you," manipulating me into testing the integrity of my stitches. I am determined to prove you wrong--that I am a good mother, capable of fulfilling each child's unique needs. But you unapologetically remind me that I leave them needing more of me; their tears and sticky grips are evidence of that. You even bombard into my marriage, convincing me that my husband's tender words of endearment are bore out of insincere obligation.
Who knows how long you will stick around and when I will begin to resemble my old self. Sooner or later, these smothering waves of emotion will allow me to feel unforced happiness again and recognize the weary reflection staring back at me. Eventually, I will break loose from your suffocating grasp and bask in the glory of my chaotic, sleep-deprived, baby love-filled reality. You cannot steal this life from me. Tomorrow may be better, but, today, I loathe you, joy-stealer.
"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."
Romans 15:13 (NIV)
