One Hand Clapping

One Hand Clapping.

This is the book I was reading postpartum, while others were reading detailed infant care guides.

Does this mean I was set out to be a bad mother?

Was I setting myself up for failure by reading a book for entertainment and not the book everyone else expected me to be reading?

I ask myself these questions during my heavy depression.

I cry uncontrollably and often.

Yet, this book with its tragic comedy brings a smile to my face.

I read about the greed of humankind.

The life of a used salesman.

And for those moments I am someone else.

I am outside of myself and my mind is enlighted and entertained.

Reading takes me to a different planet.

Where I don’t pee razorblades, have painful boobs, and leak milk all over myself.

A place where I don’t think of the scattered sleep I have or count how many times I have been peed on today.

My tears are dry on this planet and I feel no guilt.

I feel sympathy for the main character.

This book saved my life.

I felt guilty reaching out to anyone.

I felt like a bad mother who did not know how to care for her own child.

Like an outsider in the world of parenthood.

Everyone else seemed so happy to spend time with their children.

Why did I not feel the same way?

I spend hours crying in the bathroom with the fan on.

I hide my tears from those around me.

Everyone else was happy.

Why was I not?

What was wrong with me?

Pregnancy was like climbing a mountain.

But once you reach the nine months mark and this child is born, what now?

All the anticipation is over and you have a screaming newborn to care for.

No one told me I would only sleep three hours at a time.

No one told me I would be mentally ready to go back to work at 4 weeks.

Cabin fever was never mentioned.

I felt like a prisoner in my own home.

And I felt enormous amounts of guilt on top of all this.

I had to hide my feelings in a clamshell.

It got to the point I understood why women dropped off their children at the fire department.

I loved my child with all my heart but why was he always crying and why did I feel like I needed my own space?

Why was I not able to bond with this creature that grew inside my own body?

Why did the cat look at me with hungry eyes like it wanted me to squirt milk into her mouth?

Though I think the cat was just looking at me like a cat normally would.

It was my lack of sleep that made me think the cat wanted my milk.

And also that the cat was passing judgment on me.

Like “Hey there human. I gave birth to six offsprings at once and nursed them all at the same time. You have one child. Stop your feelings and get on with the show.”

In reality, the cat wanted water.

Her water dish was empty.

She had not even noticed that I had milked through my last clean shirt and had not showered in three days.

You can’t turn depression off.

I tried to for years.

I finally talked to a doctor after years of suffering.

I knew I needed to get back on medication for my own well being.

I quit Paxil cold turkey when I found out I was pregnant.

I quit drinking too.

The lack of substances in my body was a shock.

My body revolved.

I was sober and my depression was creeping up on me.

*This poem is featured in my upcoming book "Peeling Sanity"

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