What was wrong with me.
Looking back on the last few days is making me laugh. Laugh, laugh, laugh.
I’ve been really dragging. I was so pumped to get extra work done on my dissertation at the beginning of the week and by the end of the week all I wanted to do was lay on the couch. And we don’t even have cable, so the couch is generally not my preferred station. My stomach hurt. I’ve been extremely touchy. Alternately manic and full of fatigued malaise.
Last night my anxiety was so extreme I sent panicky text messages to Baby Daddy who works late most nights. One asking him to come home as soon as he could. Followed a minute later by a retraction: I’m fine! I just miss you! Followed five minutes later by The house is making noises! I can’t calm down! Followed a minute later by It’s the goddamned ice maker. HAHA! I’m going to bed! I won’t wait up! Followed ten minutes later by Are you on your way home yet? When he did get home, I burst into tears, explaining that my brain was broken. I was fully capable of recognizing my crazy, and yet incapable of doing anything about it. Like, for instance, not feel/act/be crazy.
This morning I mentioned to BD that my armpit hurt. My whole boob-area in general hurt. And nursing was really uncomfortable all of a sudden. Wtf? We’ve been doing this for almost a year!
Last night, clutching Baby Daddy and snotting into his shoulder, I wept: “What is wrong with me?”
* * * * *
Two days ago, I commented on a blog post over in the HerBadMother-hood where she had written about her conflicting feelings on the possibility or non-possibility of more children. Prior to this last week, if I searched my brain for a real, act-on-able desire for a second child, I found nothing. But just recently I’ve had this weird feeling, and brief fantasies and images of a future sibling for Hank have sprung up at times when I’m not even really thinking about the issue–while I’m doing laundry or reading or driving the car. I felt betrayed by these feelings, but also intrigued by them. In my comment on HBM’s post I said, in jest, “Am I about the get my period back or something?”
If I was capable of making that conjecture, you’d think it would have actually occurred to me during all TEH CRAZY that yes, yes I was. And yet I spent last night miserable, honestly thinking I was clinically insane. It all makes sense now, today, after the “what? am I bleeding?” then fast, but not fast enough for my ego, realization. A fucking deluge of hormones making me physically and mentally ill, and the resumption of my body’s fertility putting crazy baby ideas in my head. It makes you feel like a total sucker, doesn’t it? Knowing that you can be so totally (and obliviously) ruled by this thing you are supposedly master over.
But the thing is, I don’t know how I could be expected to recognize it. Other than some cramping, I’ve never had PMS symptoms that I’m aware of. I often didn’t even get cramps. I’ve never really had emotional ups and downs that I could pin on my cycle. So now I’m kind of afraid–is this the beginning of a new, hypersensitive era? Going through a pregnancy and childbirth and breastfeeding and postpartum anxiety has confronted me with my body and made me more aware of the connections amongst its various functions. I guess this is just another iteration.
Anyway, it was a good run. No cycle-related craziness (though there have been loads of other kinds, of course) for 12 years, and more recently, 20 months off the rag. I suppose I have to take what’s given me.
And, at least, I can look back on the black despair of 24 hours ago from here: uncomfortable, for now, but in on the joke.