I don’t owe you anything!” I screamed into the cab of my ex-boyfriend’s red Ford Ranger. It was winter, a crisp, clear night, and he’d driven there to collect my engagement ring. We were over.
“How about an explanation?” (at least I think that’s what he said)
“I just want to be happy!” By now, tears coated my face and snot ran onto my upper lip.
“You’re incapable of being happy.”
Those were the final words in that relationship. We may have exchanged texts or angry phone calls afterward, but I remember nothing after that. Nothing. For me, that was the wax seal on that chapter of my life. And damn, was that a core memory? I mean—those words have stuck with me through everything I’ve experienced since. I’m incapable of being happy.
Now, I don’t believe that’s true, or at least, I don’t think I do, but they made me question every moment of sadness, anger, or irritation since then. Every time something upsets me, I immediately think I’m the problem. I’m causing this. I’m making everyone hate me. It’s my fault.
And every time I think I beat that monster and silence his words, they come back. This time, it came back as postpartum depression (my third round, lucky me). It came in crushing waves of rage, anxiety, and exhaustion. Let’s not forget the terrifying intrusive thoughts that often involved unaliving myself because my kids would be better off without me (untrue, I know, but if you’ve ever experienced intrusive thoughts, you know how twisted they can be).
The last time I was this low was after the birth of my second child. I was cruising along the postpartum period, and then boom, I felt like I couldn’t do it anymore. Taking another breath, and another, and another… was almost too much to bear. I won’t lie. I wanted to die. I absolutely believed my children would fare better with another mother because I was incapable of happiness. Something was wrong with me, just like he said. I couldn’t experience joy in motherhood.
It couldn’t be helped. My very fabric of being was flawed.
Those words—those fucking words have tormented me for over a decade now. They’ve influenced my marriage, relationships with my family, with my kids, with my work, with my body. I’ve writhed beneath ropes tugging me to try harder, to loosen up, to just be, as the spiritual folks say.
And I can’t take it anymore. I’m going on a journey to rewire my brain. I won’t end up like so many of the women in my family before me. I won’t crumple beneath the weight of medical gaslighting, my own unfair standards, or fear of public perception. So, that’s where this column comes in.
I’m going to iron out the wrinkles until my brain feels comfy as cotton, and I figured, maybe you guys would like to come along with me?
Photo by Sydney Sims on Unsplash
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