I think about never having another kid after my first, Gabriel—not because of the pain I endured but because I thought I would have so much more help. I thought things would be different and everyday I wake up and things are just the same. I wither away from everything and darkness consumes me. I want my partner Cody to help me more and he agrees to but every morning it’s the same routine. I try to wake him up to get the baby and he threatens me or gets angry. He then proceeds to put me down and say things like, “It’s easy. I could do this with my eyes closed and you act like it’s so hard,” or “stop acting like you never get to sleep.” It is hard though. I’m 19. I am a first time mom and I’m doing this basically alone. Sure, Cody covers the finances and he tries really hard to help; he does everything basically for me and Gabriel. I’m at home dealing with throw up everywhere and a fussy baby fighting sleep with everything he has, shitty diapers that climb up his back and seeps through onto anything he was laying on, trying to nap, and he wakes up for hours instead of laying back down right away. I don’t just sleep and when I do it’s for an hour or two, and when the baby does take a really good long nap, I have to get things done, like clean, call important places, or take care of me because I am still a person who needs to take care of my hygiene and my well being. It all sounds easy, I suppose, but then my depression kicks in and I’m left doing all these things while feeling the way I do. I can’t just take a minute to lay in bed all day and cry. I have to be up and alert taking care of my baby, then I still find myself nodding out because I’m so exhausted. I say “sleep when the baby sleeps,” but I don’t really do that because even when I try to lay down, I sit there awake thinking about everything, thinking about crying again. I guess what I’m feeling is wrong, and it should be easy but for me it isn’t. I keep looking forward though, keep counting down the days until he will start sleeping through the night and things get easier. I love my son to death.
January 5th, 2018, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy weighing eight pounds and six ounces. He was my miracle really, I had problems trying to get pregnant in the past and my partner could never get anyone pregnant. Then there he was, like a blessing from god himself. Having Gabriel in our lives we were unbelievably happy, but it didn’t last long.
I remember those foul things from my childhood, as I take a drag while writing this. I would watch my mother smoke them all day, everyday, watching the smoke fill her lungs then leave as she exhales. I recall myself repeating I would never smoke still sitting here puffing down my eighth, maybe ninth cigarette. Every time the smoke fills my lungs I feel disgusted, I can feel my breaths getting shorter and shorter. Yet I don’t stop, I light one again and again killing me slowly with every hit, I just can’t put out this cigarette.