I’ve been feeling off balance lately. I do a lot of yoga, and that normally helps, but I’ve noticed when I’m really out of sync, I bring that with me. My yoga session last night was terrible. I fully understand this idea of feeling sharp, feeling prickly.
I remember that meme about Eeyore and depression, and how his friends included him anyway. My roommate had a party Friday night, and she always tries so hard to include me. (I probably don’t even give her enough credit; she’s really amazing.) I thought it sounded fun, too, a break in the monotony. It sucked. I let it be sucky. I am the Eeyore in my group of friends. I am so prickly.
When I was younger, just a year ago, I knew excitement. One year ago, I was 4 months pregnant. One year ago, I was visiting friends in DC, celebrating Chinese New Year. And my back hurt, and I was gaining weight…and I was so ecstatically happy. And yesterday my new coworker mentioned that New Years was coming, and my first thought was that it will no longer be the year of the rooster. My son and I are both roosters. I hate that I am prickly.
I hate it, because sometimes I need comfort, and I lash out instead. I am not your typical victim. I am so very angry.
I am angry at what the doctors didn’t know or even think to check. I am angry that they give me grief when I try to ask questions. I am angry at the natural childbirth movement, where nobody told me any of the risks. I am angry at advocates who push nature over everything, because sometimes in nature, babies die. I am angry at those who try to dictate my grief, and I am angry at myself for letting them engage. I am nearly always angry.
Sometimes I am a bitch. I say exactly what I mean. I am that down, depressing voice in the room. It’s what I need to be.
I hold on to my anger. It’s my most powerful emotion. It’s my best form of protection, for both my son and me.