#i had a vivid horror dream while I napped after my doctor appointment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ambrnicole-blog · 7 years ago

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It’s hard to explain

So, I’ve been battling this thing called depression. It started since about 2011. Shortly after I graduated high school, although I believe it may have been brewing before that.

Now, Its been on and off since the start. It got increasingly worse after the Aurora Theater Shooting in 2012, I also got PTSD and had to deal with that. Therapy was available, but I just wanted to avoid any and everything that had to do with it. I would have nightmares so vivid and dark. I’d have dreams about my roommates putting my cat in the microwave and nuking that cat until it exploded (this happened WAY before American Horror Story Cult showed that), being in car accidents and gruesomely seeing my families bloody bodies all over the place. I’d dream about killing my son while I was pregnant with him. I still have nightmares maybe twice a week now.

I got a little better, but it got worse again when I had a miscarriage in 2013. That really tore me up psychologically. I thought I was never going to be able to have kids. I felt like a damaged vessel that was not good to harbor a child and bring it properly into the world. I kept blaming myself for losing the baby. I lost it at 11 weeks. Barely at that “safe point” and totally jumped the gun because I was so excited and had no idea about the risk of miscarriage in first pregnancies. So, not only did I jump the gun, but I also embarrassed myself socially too. I mourned. I mourned that child so much. Still do to this day.

I hated myself about it. Thinking about everything I did and wonder “was it this?” or “maybe if I did this differently it would be here now.” type things. I kept playing the night over and over. The night I lost the baby. I was sleeping and woke up with Terrible, TERRIBLE cramps. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I went to the bathroom and there was so. much. blood. A literal crime scene happening in my under-carriage. I was confused. What is happening? Why does this hurt so much? What am I supposed to do?

In a nervous, frantic panic, I called my mom. No answer. Called again. No answer. Keep in mind this was around 2 am, maybe 3. I called her another 4 times and left a voicemail. Hysterically sobbing “Mom, I need you, it hurts so much!” to no avail I gave up on calling mom. I called my doctor, luckily he did answer. I told him what was going on. He, of course, was out of town at the time, told me to go to the hospital and quickly.

So, I wake Jake up and tell him what’s going on. We go to the hospital and they say “You’re experiencing a miscarriage.” and everything else goes silent. My heart sinks into my stomach and I instantly get sick. I died a little on the inside. I felt like I’d never be able to have kids. No DNC, so I go home and lay in bed.

I don’t eat or drink or get out of bed for nearly 4 whole days.

My mom comes by with my young sister, Ofelia, and they bring me food and make sure I’m still alive. It was nice having them over. But I still thought I was damaged. never being able to see that baby’s perfect face and get to see their first steps or get to hear their first word.

They left and that night I went to the bathroom again and there was a lot of blood still. The doc said I would pass the baby on my own and sure enough I did. That baby was at the bottom of my toilet and was the size of a walnut. so small and had its own heartbeat and everything. All I could do was sit on the floor and stare at it. It didn’t move, was curved like a cashew, and was covered in blood. I could see appendages. Very tiny. So small. So much potential.

I wanted to bury it, but burying my dead child in the yard of my apartment at that time wasn’t going to be good enough. and I didn’t have anything to contain it to properly bury it somewhere nice. So, I did the one thing I hate myself about to this day.... I flushed it.

I terribly admit I horribly flushed that carcass and hate myself everyday for it. Now, Every time I see The Help, When she buries her baby, I just cry, because I wasn’t decent enough to do the same for my own baby.

After going through my miscarriage, I slumped into a bigger depression. Which, since then I kinda dealt with.

Now, when I got pregnant with my son, I was actually happy.

Then I got pregnant again.

Now, don’t get me wrong I love my baby girl to the ends of the Earth with all my heart, but I genuinely didn’t want to be pregnant so quickly. Now, I was responsible about it. I took birth control at the same time like a religion! even kept track of my ovulation times!!! But she turned out to be the 2% that got through. Not sure if that’s a sign or not, but continuing on. I wasn’t all that happy about being pregnant, I actually was pretty upset about it. I even went to planned parenthood and got the consultation and set an appointment about getting an abortion. That’s right people, you read that right. I was going to abort my daughter. Turns out that plan went south when I had a shortage of funds.

So that plan was foiled, I considered putting her up for adoption, but I know my family would never forgive me for doing that. Neither would Jake. He’d hate me knowing he’s got another child out there somewhere being raised by some other family.

So, I kept her.

I didn’t get all happy or excited like I did with Eddy. I pretty much worked up until My water broke the morning before going to work. She moved and kicked, got hiccups and did all the things babies do in utero. I didn’t care and I wasn’t looking forward to having another baby, especially since Eddy was still so young and I wanted to wait until he was AT LEAST 2 before even trying to get pregnant again.

Up until I was actually in labor with her was I excited about her entering the world. and When she was birthed I was so happy and relieved she was finally here.

And then I went home and it sank in. I was on a cloud when she was born, then right around the first night I was home with her it hit me like a train. BAM!!! I knew it was going to be tough. I knew I wanted to breastfeed and knew that was going to be a struggle. The only way she would sleep that first night was on my chest. and she would feed every 45 min or an hour. That night was the last night she ever had skin to skin with me. Or anyone else for that matter.

In the following weeks and months, I noticed things. I noticed how much I hated my daughter. I would think of grabbing her by her feet and swinging her into a wall over and over until she was dead, because I thought that would solve my problems. I would think of throwing her out of my 2 story window, because I thought I wouldn’t have to deal with her anymore. I thought like that ALL THE TIME! I’d have those thoughts then I would stay up at night crying because I would be so disgusted in myself for even thinking like that in the first place. Baffled at how I could think like that since she was just a baby; what did she do that was so wrong for me to hate her so? I wasn’t jealous or anything like that. I was constantly battling myself and my thoughts. I would internally scream in my mind whenever she would cry. I would instantly get frustrated, think of how to hurt her, then hate myself, and give her attention, all in the same second it took for me to tend to her needs. I lost copious amounts of sleep constantly having this never ending battle in my consciousness.

This, in turn, led to a short temper I had with everything and anything. I chalked it up to my hormones fucking with me. Or at least that’s what I told everyone. I knew something was wrong with me and didn’t know what it was. I started barely caring for my kids. I would put the tv on way too much for Eddy and Lilly would sit in her bouncer almost all day. I’d only grab her to feed her or occasionally change her. I would sit on the couch and just stare off into space. I’d pick up after Eddy during his nap time and maybe do some dishes, run a vacuum if I’m lucky. It was the same things every day. Jake would come home and ask me if Lilly would stare at me all day and I would lie and say yes. I never told him she would stay in that bouncer almost all day until he would get home. So that’s probably why she doesn’t do much cuddling now. It was like that nearly everyday for months.

I finally talked with my lady doc and she came to the conclusion of something called postpartum depression and psychosis. Never heard of it in my life. Apparently about 1 in 10 moms get PPD. She prescribed medication and therapy.

I followed through with the medication part, but the therapy I still wasn’t comfortable with. I didn’t want to tell anyone about this because I felt embarrassed about it. I thought If I told people what I actually thought that they would worry about the safety about my children and try to take them away from me. I developed anxiety from that. Worrying about weather or not I was an appropriate mother simply because I thought about constantly killing them. Worried I would wake up one day and they wouldn’t be there, that I would tell someone my thoughts and they would be taken from me, then I wouldn’t have a purpose and yet again, be a defective person. Damaged. So I kept it quiet.

I started to force myself to care for Lilly, because I knew she needed that affection. I knew it was essential for her development. I would pick her up on occasion and try to talk to her, give her baths and would massage her legs and arms with lotions. I felt like forcing myself to care for her would be good for her, not only because she needed it, but because I felt she had to get it from somewhere. I didn’t actually feel emotionally connected to her. Like I was just going through the motions. I knew I had to care for her, not because I wanted to, but because I knew she needed it in order for her to be a regular human being hopefully.

The depression was bad too. I would wake up and just lay there not being able to move or get out of bed. I’d tell myself “get up” and go over my big to do list, but I would still be laying there. It would feel like a giant tree was burning and fell, coincidentally, right on top of me and I’m too weak to lift it up. I make all the tries and efforts to get this fucker off of me, but I can’t so I accept that I can’t move it and let it slowly burn me alive. Or like I’m standing on a railroad in the middle of a forest, and I notice a train coming toward me at 100 mph and I try to run away, but my feet are glued to the tracks. I can’t move. My feet are stuck and I can’t go anywhere. Then as soon as the train does hit me. I feel the force everywhere, but suddenly the train is moving as slow as molasses and its forever and eternally going to be running over me. I can’t stop it.

But it’s hard to explain to others. They think I need to go outside more. okay, so I’ll just be depressed outside then. Or I need to be with other people more often, so I’ll be blue around them. Or I need to be more active, so I’ll dread every moment I try getting things done. It’s not so simple and I can’t just truck through it. I’m constantly arguing with myself in my head and no one sees it. Its even harder for them to understand exactly what it is that’s happening, so I save them the hassle of even knowing.

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