I want to talk to you about anger.
I want to talk about that simmering, unexpected overflow of rage that happens in those silent lonely spaces and results in bitter words.
That same rage that brutalises your mind and exhausts your body.
I want to talk about the rage that refuses to “relax” and demands you shut the f*ck up and listen to it.
That other face of anxiety that we don’t hear much about, but is alive and well.
5 MONTH sleep regression your f*cking killing me ???? This is me getting some rest whilst Harper is asleep in the car. She has been waking every 2 hours (night and day) and just wants to be held. I’m parked outside our house. I haven’t showered today and let’s not even get started on my hair situation???????? Interestingly I just came from the post office where a lovely old lady smiled at Harper and asked me how motherhood was going. I cheerily replied “it’s great” but what I really meant was… It’s been a tough week. Motherhood can be at times exhausting. It is constantly worrying about not being good enough, doing enough and not being present enough. It is that moment at 2am that makes you wonder if you can keep going and wondering if anyone else ever reaches that point too? It is missing your husband and that carefree quality time together. It is the relentless lack of sleep, the littering of half drunken cups of coffee all over the house and the constant selfless attentiveness to this little needy, gorgeous human. That’s motherhood right now. But other than that, yeah it’s fantastic! #grumpyandtired #rawandreal #motherhoodisnotahuggiesad ???????????? #marriedatfirstsight
Irrational, aggressive, explosive, depressive. Anger.
The anger that overcame me when (after holding my newborn baby in my arms and on my breast from sunset to sunrise) only to have her scream murder when I tried to put her in her cot and take a 10 minute break.
Exhausted from it all. Soaked in breastmilk and sweat.
The anger that I would feel when I couldn’t bear the thought of another sleepless night, followed by yet another foggy day with a forced smile.
Yet another midwife who patted my shoulders and told me I was doing so well when I wanted her to see I wasn’t. I really bloody wasn’t.
The guilt that would engulf me when I would question whether having a baby was a mistake.
The rage that took over me that in my darkest moment as a mother, riddled with the pain of mastitis and weak in body and soul – I envisioned throwing my tiny baby across the room. Into the wall.