Before writing my blog post last night, it was 3 in the morning and already way past my bedtime. I was on my third day of watching myself slip back into a vicious cycle of sleep irregularity, and after tiring myself out with painting I felt I might finally be able to get to sleep. I laid down in bed by Jesse and tried to fall asleep. Though I was tired, I was confronted with racing thoughts and ideas, and the aforementioned revelation about my cognitive processes. I knew I could easily lay in bed like this for hours, until well after sunrise, up until the baby called for me from his crib. It's happened many times already. When I realized I needed to write, it was in conflict with my need to sleep. I tried to tell myself, "These are great ideas and all, but you can write about it in the morning. You need to sleep now." This did nothing to soothe my restlessness. Sleep would not come.
So I caved. I got out of bed and started writing. This is something I have done many times, too. It does work to help me sleep, the problem being it may take just as long for me to write what needs to be written as it would to just lay there and get myself to sleep. And sure enough, once the blog was written (and I had read over it again three or four times), I was able to lay in bed and fall asleep quickly enough that I do not remember needing to try. Fortunately, the writing process was brief enough that it was still dark outside. I could have written more, god knows I have about three dozen other blog ideas bouncing around in my head, but I wrote only what needed to be written, and nothing more. And that was sufficient.
I did not wake naturally; I of course woke to the cries of a well-rested baby ready to start his day. Problem was, I wasn't quite ready to start mine, though it was probably already at least 11 AM. I wanted to just rest for a bit longer. "Five more minutes, sweetie," my brain said. At the same time, muttering in the background, it also said, "You're a terrible mother." I could have stifled that thought, I know that it is irrational and maladaptive, but it was given fuel by Jesse who, already awake and absorbed with his own tasks, echoed the baby's cries: "Get up." The tone was mercilessly irritable. And I knew what he was thinking: I know you're tired, but that's your own fault. You stayed up late again, despite all the effort I have put into trying to get you to sleep right. I do not feel bad for you feeling tired, because you are to blame. You have responsibilities and I will not let you shirk them. Get up. Once this impulse was filtered through my mind, the information my brain gave back was this: "He thinks you're a failure as a mother. And he's right."
The little monster mumbling in the back of my mind was turning into a black hole of despair, sucking up any piece of information it could find to justify making itself bigger. I was watching depression happening. I wanted to get up, to stop this process in its tracks. But not only was I tired, I was beginning to become paralyzed with anxiety.
I had to get up and take the baby out of his crib. But in order to do that, I had to put clothes on, since I sleep in the nude. I knew I had underwear in my dresser, I could handle that. I knew my bra was somewhere on the floor. Okay. Do I even have any clean pants? Doesn't matter. I want to wear shorts. Do I even have any clean shorts? Probably not. Can I wear dirty shorts? Probably. It was a compromise, but I could handle dirty shorts. Can I even find a pair of dirty shorts? The room is a complete mess, and hardly any of the dirty clothes manage to find their way into the laundry basket. It would probably take me several minutes to find a pair of dirty shorts, if I was able to find any at all. I knew that if I had to spend more than a minute or two hunting down those shorts, I would become gripped with frustration over the state of the room itself. I would notice a dirty dish somewhere, or see a cockroach crawling across the floor, or find some bauble I once treasured broken or strewn carelessly across the floor. I know what the room looks like, and I don't like looking at it. It brings up a whole tsunami of other thoughts and troubles that fill up my mind like an over-inflated play ball, so that as soon as someone starts to play with it, it bursts.
All while this thought negotiation is going on, Jesse is repeating, each time becoming more irritable: "Get up." The black hole grows with each pinprick star of fuel he gives it. He thinks the black hole has already consumed me, now he thinks that I am too depressed to get up. But that is not the case. It hasn't gotten me. Yet.
I try to push the thoughts back, and move forward with my process. So I can't even begin to look for a pair of dirty shorts. Could I wear something else? Maybe I could settle for some pants. I think all my jeans are dirty. Are there any sweatpants in the dresser? Maybe. I'm not sure. They may all be in that pile of clean laundry that ended up on the floor. There has to be something in the drawer, I'm pretty sure. I can find something. I know I have shirts in the drawer. I can get a shirt. So I can get dressed. But when I get up, I'm going to smell myself. I can't stand that smell.
It has been several minutes, and Jesse's frustration with me is mounting. He is yelling now. "GET UP." He is cursing now. "GOD DAMN IT HEIDI, GET THE FUCK UP." The baby is wailing in the other room. You are a failure as a mother.
I need a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes, I know I can do this. I am so close now. I just need a little help. I ask Jesse if he can just take care of the baby. This only enrages him more. He tells me he is busy with a very important task. He does not tell me what that task is. You are not important enough to be helped. You're not worth it.
I try to tell him I need him to do this thing. He tells me I need to get up and do it myself. He thinks I have been lost to the black hole already, and I am trying to shirk my duties onto him. He thinks I am going to be trapped like this all day. It is not an unreasonable assumption; it has happened many times. I tell him, "I just need you to take the baby out of his crib and put him in the playroom. That is all. Please." Finally, he lays on me what the task is that he has to do. He is writing some urgent emails because there is a bureaucratic crisis with his enrollment at the university. When the gravity of the situation then sinks in for me, I am awash with empathy for him. Were it me, I would be a mess of snot and tears, would want to curl up in a ball and die. No longer would my little monster be muttering the kinds of inconsequential insults it is now, it would be screaming over me: YOU HAVE NO PURPOSE IN LIFE. YOU ARE TRAPPED. YOU SHOULD JUST DIE. He is a bit more functional than I am though; he is actually dealing with the situation. But I know how he must feel, and I care deeply for him. Just as I know he does for me. Therefore, I do not want him to feel that way, or anywhere near how I would feel if put in his situation. I don't want to be doing things to make him feel worse. The intensity of my empathy reignites my motivation to get up. Now I just want to help him.
But because of the way he has been reacting, I feel resentful. He is telling me that he has to deal with this, and he can't handle me feeling a little sad. He is belittling me for my impairment, telling me to get over it. Just get over it. Just stop being sad. What's wrong with you? Just move one leg, then the other, and get the hell out of bed. Why is this so hard? I find myself screaming now: "IT'S NOT THAT FUCKING SIMPLE." The whole dispute becomes a haze. It has only been a few hours since it happened, but I can hardly remember many of the details or exact words that were said. All I can remember are the impressions.
But part of the breakdown in communication is very clear to me. He thinks I am depressed, when that is not the problem. At one point I am able to articulate, "I'm not depressed, that's not the problem. Anxiety is the problem." I don't know if he hears me, or if he's even really listening, but at some point, while he's still berating me for not getting up, he does go and put the baby in the nursery. I still need to change him and feed him, but I am able to move the task to the back of my mind. Since the baby is not actively crying, the immediacy of the task is neutralized.
So the smell. It's starting to make me feel more miserable. I have gone way too long without a shower. Can I put on deoderant before putting on my shirt? Sure, but that doesn't entirely fix the problem. Even if I don't smell myself, I know that I'm disgusting. And the thought that I'm disgusting is more black hole fuel I can't afford to give it. Well, can I just put deoderant on for now? I can take a shower once the baby is fed. Yeah, I can do that. So I can get dressed, and once I take care of the baby, I can take a shower. That I can do.
And little by little, I start to get up. I prop myself up on my arms, looking around the room to see if I can find the clothes I need. I am able to get up. There are no mental roadblocks, and that monstrous little black hole fades back into the background as I slowly work through each step. When I get to the nursery, the baby is smiling up at me, babbling incoherently.
As I'm changing the baby, Jesse comes up and hugs me from behind. "I love you," he says.
"I love you too," I return.
There is no need for a lengthy apology. I have already forgiven him. I know it is really hard to understand how or why I think and behave the way I do. Even for someone as brilliant as him, any kind of mental illness is impossible to understand fully unless you're the one suffering from it. And even then, I do not entirely understand what is going on inside my skull. The truth is, no one does. Not even the most talented neuroscientists and psychologists. Everyone is just practicing with their best guesses. And though I don't have any concrete diagnosis, we both know something is awry. He may try to armchair diagnose and has called it many things: bipolar, depression, OCD. I would suggest ADHD and generalized anxiety as well. But even if I had a diagnosis, that still would not be a real answer as to how or why I feel and think the way I do. Just like God Did It or Because I Said So, I find bland diagnoses to be an intellectually insufficient response to the essential question: Why?
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