Anne TootillTo Be or Not to Be a Mother- Part Three
January 23rd 2007 21:16
I tried not to lose it on a daily basis. I wasn’t sure when it would all pass. I hoped it would soon. I was so, so busy, constantly doing, doing, doing and yet somehow I still had time to know I felt incredibly sad. But for now I had responsibilities, so I did what I had to even if I was starting to wish I’d rather be dead.
I wish I had someone to talk to. I needed someone to talk to. Even if that someone thought I was being melodramatic and making it all up. So I would call my husband at work. I couldn’t call him often. I limited it to 2-3 times per week and very short conversations at a time. I worried about his job every time. I didn’t want him to get in trouble with his boss. So I waited until I felt so sad that I’d rather die than live the life I was in for another minute and then I dialed the phone. And when the receptionist answered I put on my happy face and chattered about my peachy perfect life and how lucky I was to be a mother, until my husband came on the line. And then I cried. I begged him to help me or maybe he could ask his mother to come over for a couple of hours a week (trust me, she’d already shown she’d do it when he asked but not when I did) and he said that maybe he would. But he never did. I cried and asked if maybe he could find someone to babysit for a little bit so I could get out of the house, maybe it would help and he said that maybe he would. But he never did. What he did do was speak to me with kindness and compassion until I stopped crying and then he would tell me he loved me and that he’d be home regular time (7:30 P.M., after the kids were tucked in for the night). And then we say good-bye. And that was that.
For a while I thought that he was just pretending not to do something because he wanted to surprise me with a babysitter or a night out or a weekend away or him coming home early one night to help out. I waited and hoped through days, weeks, months, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Holidays, but the reprieve never came. Not from my husband, not from my parents, not from my sisters. Even though for once in my life, I’d actually asked. At first I was confused. I’d been there to help everyone else through their physical and emotional traumas.
Why didn’t anyone want to help me? And then I understood. I really was worthless. I was only good for giving to others. You know what? It was no big deal really, since I knew I could never get any sadder than I already was.
I wish I had someone to talk to. I needed someone to talk to. Even if that someone thought I was being melodramatic and making it all up. So I would call my husband at work. I couldn’t call him often. I limited it to 2-3 times per week and very short conversations at a time. I worried about his job every time. I didn’t want him to get in trouble with his boss. So I waited until I felt so sad that I’d rather die than live the life I was in for another minute and then I dialed the phone. And when the receptionist answered I put on my happy face and chattered about my peachy perfect life and how lucky I was to be a mother, until my husband came on the line. And then I cried. I begged him to help me or maybe he could ask his mother to come over for a couple of hours a week (trust me, she’d already shown she’d do it when he asked but not when I did) and he said that maybe he would. But he never did. I cried and asked if maybe he could find someone to babysit for a little bit so I could get out of the house, maybe it would help and he said that maybe he would. But he never did. What he did do was speak to me with kindness and compassion until I stopped crying and then he would tell me he loved me and that he’d be home regular time (7:30 P.M., after the kids were tucked in for the night). And then we say good-bye. And that was that.
For a while I thought that he was just pretending not to do something because he wanted to surprise me with a babysitter or a night out or a weekend away or him coming home early one night to help out. I waited and hoped through days, weeks, months, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Holidays, but the reprieve never came. Not from my husband, not from my parents, not from my sisters. Even though for once in my life, I’d actually asked. At first I was confused. I’d been there to help everyone else through their physical and emotional traumas.
Why didn’t anyone want to help me? And then I understood. I really was worthless. I was only good for giving to others. You know what? It was no big deal really, since I knew I could never get any sadder than I already was.
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