Sunday, August 31, 2008
I am taking part in Catherine's Betchfest, an exchange geared at allowing bloggers to have a safe place to vent outside their own space and as such I have agreed to host another woman's post on my blog. She's asked to remain anonymous, but I am sure you'll be as moved as I am by her words and I applaud her courageousness in allowing her voice to speak here. I am sure she'd appreciate your comments about her post.
I am 11 weeks postpartum. Eleven weeks out from what I’m coming to realize was a truly a difficult, difficult pregnancy.
Throughout this pregnancy we moved house and into what would become a very stressful tenant/landlord situation, our son turned two and caught a violent strain of the rotavirus, landing him in the pediatric intensive care unit for five days, then a month later had tubes put in his ear. I vomited every day and gained only nine pounds. My husband filed bankruptcy and we unplugged our phone after my anxiety attacks came like waves every time the phone rang.
And here we are. Our beautiful daughter is a treasure and I love her with every ounce of my being. But those were some horrible ten months.
And now, my husband feels entitled to remind me that I was mean, and crazy, and unhappy, and complaining all the time. Here I am struggling with what I suspect is becoming a bout with my old friend depression and my husband must hold over my head what a burden I am, emotionally and financially.
In just this last week, he went to the movies, to a ball game, to the bar with my visiting brother. Last week he was gone all weekend at a bachelor party. And then he told me that I ask for too much. All I wanted was an hour to read a book at a coffee shop, alone. But we don’t have the money. Not even for a cup of coffee.
He hasn’t been kind to me. He’s miserable in his job. He carries the load of supporting our family, which we both felt was best. But the price these days has gone up, and I’m paying with my self-esteem and self-worth. To be reminded that I don’t bring an income in, to be made to feel as though I am less deserving of personal time, to be made to feel as a second class citizen in my home… fuck that shit.
And fuck you for saying I was mean, or unsupportive, or cranky, or insulting me because I didn’t want to have sex. I was vomiting and physically disabled. Thanks for your support.
I gave everything every single day to raising our son. There was very little left over for myself or for my husband. I did the best I could.