It’s finally quiet. The inconsolable crying that has kept our entire household up for the last two hours has (mostly) died down. Brian is with her, trying to get her to sleep in her crib again.
I just can’t deal with it. What’s worse is how much I hate myself for not being able to deal with it.
I should be trying to sleep. That’s why Brian went in there. He’s trying to give me a break and help out. He knows I’m exhausted and burnt out. But I can’t. I’m wound up.
In the middle of the night like this, I feel the worst. During daylight hours, I mostly have my depression under control or, at least, I don’t let it control me. In the darkness, however, I feel it trying to get out. The thoughts that I can ignore (mostly) when the sun is shining and my daughter is happy and smiling, choose the late nights to come out an play around in my head, upsetting a very fragile balance.
I’m not good enough, they tell me. I’m a bad mother. I’ve done everything wrong so far. I’m a bad wife, for making my husband get up in the middle of the night and sleep on the nursery floor. I’m a bad wife because our house isn’t spotlessly clean. I’m a bad wife, I’m a bad mother, I’m a bad friend, I’m a bad person. It’s what I hear over an over in my head.
My depression tells me to not even bother writing this down. No one cares. No one reads this. I’m not important. My depression points to all the other people who have all these friends rushing to their aid whenever even the slightest thing is bothering them when no one notices me. No one cares, it says.
It’s supposed to get better, right? People say it gets better.
I’m not better.