I need $250. Right now.

May I present to you The Velvet Inigo.

If you follow the link, you can bask in the awesomeness that is this painting surrounded by a frame of twinkle lights.

You're welcome.  I know I have a stronger testimony because of this painting.  Amen.

This is what it's like.

Three of the kids start school tomorrow, leaving us with only the high-maintenance, low-chore-accomplishing contingent at home during the day. 

It's one in the morning, and I can't sleep due to, um, everything.  You know how sleep eludes you when you need it the most?  That's where I am.  Postpartum depression will mess with all your stuff.  I think I'm over the worst of it, I HOPE I am over the worst of it.  I probably am, because I can think about it and write about it, instead of just doing nothing.

What's it like?  The best way I can think of to describe it is like a gray fog.  It's between my brain and my body and the outside world.  Food doesn't taste as good, music that I normally love leaves me flat, I don't have energy to do anything about anything.   The only emotions that come easily are guilt and shame and anger and sadness.  Nothing is funny.

Sometimes I feel like I'm two people:  I feel a kind of duality to my perceptions and reactions.  I have this awesome and adorable little baby, who is becoming more wiggly and smile-y every day.  The rest of the kids are so excited about her that they run in to our room first thing every morning to see her.  At the same time, some other part of me is just numb, and treading water, and feeling terrible that such an important time in my life is passing by while all I can do is barely function.

I'm freaking out over any little bump in the road.  Is Cora getting enough to eat?  There is a massive spider infestation (of massive spiders) in our sewing room.  The kids are taking for-frakking-ever to do the dishes again.  Toby isn't paying enough attention/the right kind of attention to me.  Then I melt down like a two-year-old, and hold a grudge for days.

What makes it worse is the conviction that I should not feel the way I do.  If I could just try harder to be happy, to not lose my temper, to not get so stressed out about every little thing, would I be better?  That's the real question, isn't it?  Am I depressed because of how I think, or do I see things the way I do because of the depression?  Believe me, Toby and I have talked this one into the ground repeatedly.

I realize that I have many, many risk factors against me.  Depression is strong in my family like the Force is strong in Luke's.  I have a weird combination of a perfectionist and a slacker nature, which means I don't get nearly the results I envision from life, then beat myself up over it. Add six kids and two unfinished houses into the mix, and maybe anyone would be equally crazy.

I wish I could end this with some helpful hints, a list of what I've learned.  The list is pretty short:  I know I've made it through this before. 




On a lighter note, Loch created this little sculpture from only a teaspoon, some butter, and a Micromachine Van.