Post-partum (16 months, 14 days)
Behind me, in the living room, Marshall is watching Driven on VH1. The subject? Fred Durst. Seriously. I guess I just know nothing about him, certainly not enough even to be amused. I've watched and enjoyed the Leann Rimes and Brittney Spears episondes and found them very amusing. We intended to watch Pink's Driven, but I, at least, never did.
Woo hoo. Does it get any more exciting than this? I just realized that I've neither watched nor read any news this weekend. Funny how I don't miss it. A quick glance through CNN--no new major headlines. Speaking of, my homepage URL at work is set to Yahoo!, and all day on Thursday, when Isabel made landfall on the east coast, I kept reading "Isabel" as "Israel" and wondering what the hell was going on that Israel was suddenly turning its attention to the east--cutting power to millions, killing folks, etc. Eventually, reason prevailed, and I saw Isabel for what she was, a hurricane, not one part of a land war in Asia.
I'm trying to figure out how to be more than surface. My life feels so busy all the time. I don't think it is, though, not truly. What it is is routine and full, and I'm not entirely (or really remotely) happy with all that's filling it.
Like many people, I hate my job. With normal, prosaic, everyday loathing. More than the day-to-day, though, I resent the time it steals when I'm not even there. I have to travel, which I don't particularly want to do right now. But it's more the time and energy I expend not wanting to be there. With looking for a new job.
There's a newish commercial for Careerbuilder out where a guy talks about how he spent so much time looking for a new job that it was like having a second job, just one that paid really bad. That's it, but not it.
After Audrey was born, I was in a constant state of panic. I would look at her and become terrified--that she might get sick, that I would get sick, that I would fail. She would sleep, and I would stare at her, fearfully. I loved her so much that I ached with it, but I was paralyzed by the enormity of her being. When I went back to work, it was crushing, suffocating. The moments that passed between leaving her and returning to her were unending. And yet, to give over the overwhelming responsibility of being near her was a relief. Feeling that sowed guilt.
Somehow, everything in the world was wrapped up in this tiny, brown-haired creature, so helpless and yet in complete control. It was an undertow, and I couldn't break free. For months I struggled.
When I called the doctor, I felt I'd failed. And then Zoloft took the edge away. But it took something else away, too. Something that I can't quite name. Or is it the apathy I feel about my work? Perhaps it's the omnipresent guilt.
All of it, none of it, creating and holding form to this veil.
Once upon a time, I knew how to choose words particularly. Nowadays, the words seem to escape me. My conversations are as empty and nonspecific as these writings, carrying no lasting import. I can't quite see the pattern of language. I'm not reading as much. The television is on too often. I'm turning into a person I once might have mocked.
I think I need a list. I think I need some goals. Small ones first. Maybe to get up tomorrow when the alarm first sounds, rather than wait an hour to drag myself out.