Post Partum Journal Entry

 Postpartum is being alone and never alone.

 

Postpartum is sleep deprivation and vomit covered clothing and a house that when you open the door smells like dirty diapers. 

 

Postpartum is wanting to have time to self-care and clean and read and go out or stay in and a baby that cries unceasingly. 

 

Postpartum is looking in the mirror at a body that resembles Jabba the hut. 

Postpartum is scrolling Instagram posts of how to bounce back and super fit moms telling you belly blast moves and where to get the best high rise jeans. 

Postpartum is watching the man of your dreams and husband replace you. 

Postpartum is wishing you were loved and doted on as much as the baby. Wishing that he asked as many questions about you, your thoughts and dreams and day- as he does about how often the baby pooped. 

 

Postpartum is watching out the window as people ride by the house on bicycles. 

Postpartum is others telling you to ask for help- and who are too busy to help when you do. 

Postpartum is others trying to hold the baby to help you but the baby screams for hours because someone else is holding him.

Postpartum is piles of laundry; baby clothes, bedding, your own clothes, the towels and rags used to clean up the spills and bodily excretions, the blankets and STILL walking around with dried snot and milk on your shoulders from patting the babies back.

 

 

Postpartum is seeing your dreams become buried in stone and trying to chip away the rock around nap times or with a swaddle carrier strapped to your back.

Postpartum is other mothers telling you how to do better and suggesting their way to do it. 

Postpartum is looking at your reflection and not recognizing the eyes staring back at you. 

Postpartum is wishing you were beautiful again and your body wasn’t a deflated balloon. 

Postpartum is being afraid of having sex and wanting to be sexy.

Postpartum is becoming a milk dispenser. 

Postpartum is peeing your pants when you laugh or cough. 

Postpartum is gushing blood for weeks and clutching your abdomen in pain with contractions as your uterus is shrinking.

Postpartum is not feeling like your body belongs to you but someone else. 

Postpartum is wanting to talk about anything except the baby and having nothing to talk about except the baby.

Postpartum is losing your connection with friends and missing the freedom to do a quick lunch or coffee, to do a quick anything without packing a diaper bag before you go anywhere. 

Postpartum is a baby who screams like fingernails on a chalkboard in the car because they can’t see you and pulling the car off the road to nurse or calm down the blue faced breathless gasping baby.

Postpartum is becoming the only one that no one takes care of.

Postpartum is handing over the baby after your husband comes home and sitting alone watching the baby be loved. 

In the haze of postpartum you still cook and clean and do laundry and read books to your other kids and make sure your husband feels supported – while you sit alone day after day being needed by another human who can’t be alone for seconds and cries when you go pee.

Postpartum is every person around you telling how precious this time is and to savor every moment. Well-wishers wagging their finger at you saying how lucky you are, except you wish you were dead. 

Postpartum is wanting to escape, take a break, but there is no where to go, and if you happen to get a break- the laundry is higher and the baby is crying. The work load is bigger than when you took some time for "yourself" and the load as it is- is too much to bear.

Postpartum is being a nanny and cook now. A cow used to house and breed the baby that is everything to everyone now.

Postpartum is being a voice lost to the wind. 

Postpartum is being lost.

Postpartum is being invisible. 
Postpartum is having your husband or best friend come to help with the baby so you can do the dishes and catch up on laundry. 

Postpartum is being alone and never alone. 

(If you are or know someone struggling; 988 is the number you can call for crisis help. For me, my friend called my doctor who then called me and got me help. My husband reached out to my  mom and sister- who began giving me breaks from my baby regularly. I wouldn't still be here without them.)

I partnered with other women to tell their stories of motherhood, the stories that aren't shared with badges and ribbons, in a book titled Unspoken Motherhood. Stories of PostPartum, Miscarriage, Child loss, adoption, and more. 

See it here:

Unspoken Motherhood