No matter how much you love your child, motherhood is hard
I’m in a mother group chat. It’s comforting at first, hearing the majority of mothers no matter their age, no matter the amount of kids, types of births or pregnancies seem to struggle with postpartum depression or rage or anxiety. It shouldn’t be normal to have such struggles tied to this period and ignored in conversation.
Then the conversation changes. Mothers talk about the vast support offered. How they were riled around, medical professionals taking them seriously. Friends, neighbors and family cooking meals, cleaning the house and showing them their own importance.
And honestly I’m jealous
I feel like I tried to get help for so long. I feel like I didn’t get anything and I’m just jealous. Begging for health visitors and GPs to take my emotions serious. Scared of the thoughts that paint over my beautiful babies face in my memory.
Sculpts my invisibility.
Like I didn’t deserve mental health care and these mom do and it’s hard to not take that personally.
To not bundle that information into a statement of I don’t matter.
Nursing my baby on his first birthday
I absorbed my child’s birthday wishes and took them as my own praise. I wish a balloon was offered to myself for surviving the year. I poured my love into my son. Consent fear of doing everything wrong. In a house filled party to celebrate the fact that a year ago I almost died, I sat alone in a packed house. A older woman I don’t know, sitting next to me, full of critique.
On my son’s first birthday party, I cannot breastfeed in front of the guests as it makes them uncomfortable. On my son’s first birthday party I’m told I’m a bad mother.
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