A Fraud. A Failure.
Let me start by saying, I have always been a worrier. I just have. I was a nervous kid, and I am a nervous adult, and when I have said on here that I am shy, that is an understatement. However, in the year since Jack was born, it's been worse. It started to get better, but then we found out that our house was basically poisoning us, and ever since, I just really have been having some trouble.
I am scared. All the time. And I don't mean nervous. I am straight up terrified that everything is going to fall apart right in front of my face. I feel like everything I am doing, I am doing it wrong. I am scared because I don't know what is in the walls, in the air. I can't protect my son, or my husband, or even myself.
I didn't write about it, because I didn't want it to be a real problem. I have been telling myself that this is just a phase, a season of life, that it will resolve itself. That I will get better, but it has been a year, and I am not getting better. In fact, if I had to choose, I would say I am getting worse. I can't really fall asleep, and when I do I wake up sweating because I don't know how we would get Jack out of his room if there was a fire (etc. etc,).
I have written about my struggles with depression in the past, and this? This is not depression. It's anxiety or something. I am incredibly happy, if that makes sense. So happy that I am afraid it will all be taken away from me in the blink of an eye. I don't deserve this happiness (and yes, I do realize how flawed my logic is here, but I can't seem to rationalize my way through this one).
I finally worked up the courage to call the doctor, and to be honest, I am incredibly disappointed at how the appointment went. I tried to explain how I was feeling, but I felt like she thought I was just another crazy person. Her, with her eyebrows raised as I tried to explain that I get dizzy until I realize that I, inexplicably, have been holding my breath randomly. She asked me some questions, and I told her that I would rather go to some form of counseling or therapy, with medication being a secondary option. She seemed fine with this, but then wrote me a prescription she said would be fine with breastfeeding, then left. No referral to a counselor, no actual diagnosis, and I have no idea where to start.
I picked up my prescription, and right on the back it says not to take it if you are breastfeeding. I asked the pharmacist, who looked it up and said that according to her information, that drug is potentially toxic in breastmilk.
So...here we are. I am willing to wean Jack if that is the only way I can be the best mom and wife that I can be, but I, with my limited knowledge and resources, have already found two other drugs that are deemed safe for breastfeeding infants and will be calling the doctor back tomorrow, and we will also be calling the counseling services offered through Matt's employer.
This post is awkward, and jumbled. And not nearly as eloquent as I would like it to be, but this is where I am. Sitting at my laptop, staring at a little brown pill bottle, tears running down my face.
I hate that I can't pull myself out of this on my own.