I don’t know why I’m writing this, I guess I’m just tired.
I am 30 years old. Seven months ago my son was born. And my life is over. Yes, I know about the postpartum period with its possible depressions, etc., but in my case this is not the case.
I never wanted children. They have always made me feel extremely uncomfortable. I married a man who already had a child from a previous marriage in the belief that he wouldn’t pick my brain about having children together. Everything was fine. My career went uphill, we bought an apartment. Six years passed and I got pregnant by accident – I had a bad change of birth control pills, apparently, there was a mistake somewhere. My husband was happy and I could feel the ground falling out from under me in a bad way.
I decided to stay pregnant, because everyone says that hormones work miracles, that it is impossible not to fall in love. False. I had nothing but anger and despair for the missed opportunities, lost figure (I work out professionally), wasted money. But it all seemed to go without any problems. I gave birth without any problems or pain. I didn’t even realize that I was in labor. In the end they took the baby out of me in 20 minutes.
Honestly? I forgot about him as soon as he left me. I was just happy it was over. The midwife was very surprised, saying, how come you don’t even want to look at him? I didn’t. The breastfeeding procedure was passed as a chore, as well as 4 days in the maternity hospital, where we had to pretend that everything was good. But the good stuff wasn’t good enough. The brightest thought that went through my head was that I was not going to let THIS touch my breast. The thought of breastfeeding gave me a real gag reflex, and that’s not a turn of phrase. I don’t know how it happened, but my milk didn’t come. There wasn’t even any colostrum and I breathed a sigh of relief. At the maternity hospital I was a second-class person – there’s breastfeeding propaganda. If you don’t breastfeed, you’re not worthy of the nurse’s attention or even the treatment of stitches. Okay, we survived that and went home.
My husband is thrilled, my mother is thrilled. I won’t touch the relationship with my parents now – it’s bad there. Six months of psychotherapy sessions allowed me to understand some things, but never helped me come to terms with them.
My grandmother became obsessed with her grandson and completely forgot about me. She called the constant vigil over the crib and hooting a lot of help. A month after I gave birth, my stitches came undone and I started bleeding. What did I hear from my mother? A rebuke for not going out for a walk with a baby in a 25-pound stroller. I think that says a lot.
The bottom line is that I haven’t felt anything for the baby in that time. He only makes me irritated and angry. I don’t like the way he smells, I want to run away from his screams, I don’t understand what he wants at all. In six months, I have never once gone up to him for no reason. Of course I feed him and change his clothes, but these are purely mechanical actions that I want to do as quickly as possible. And then go away again.
My husband has taken on the maternal aspects. He loves the baby, willingly spends time with him. And I ispovedi.com can’t even be in the same room with him. I’m in prison. I’m a servant for a lump who just showed up, but who has become the center of the earth for my whole family. And I don’t exist anymore. I don’t exist.
Sometimes the baby sleeps and in that silence I forget that he exists. And when I remember, everything inside falls. I wish and pray that one day I will wake up, and it will turn out to be just a bad dream. But the dream just won’t end.
