Heal these scars

Some people have scars that cannot be hidden, ones that mark their bodies in a way that they cannot cover up. Others stare at the mismatched flesh on their faces, their heads, their arms, or their hands, and wonder what tragedy caused them to carry that reminder around forever.

For the rest of us, life deals us whatever set of circumstances that leaves us wounded inside, where no one can see. Every one of us is left scarred in our own way, each to our own extent.

It can be easy to conveniently forget about the pain that caused these injuries, or the fact that you need to deal with them, when they don't stare back at you in the mirror every day. But sometimes, they come screaming back to the surface when you least expect it.

It's not always a bad thing, though.

I'll explain.

Some friends of ours had their first baby on Thursday night. I used my lunch break on Friday to go visit them at the hospital and take them a gift. The new baby was adorable. He slept with a sweet little smirk on his face and just seemed so happy. I was really glad for my friends as the new mom talked about how the baby was barely fussing, was nursing like a champ, was perfectly healthy....

But....there are these other feelings. Like the fact that I wanted to cry in that room, because everything was so relaxed, without everyone worried about things like, "Oh, the baby won't eat, what's going on with this, she doesn't want to eat...." "Nursing just isn't working right now, we're going to have to go ahead and supplement...." "She isn't strong enough for this bottle, you're going to have to feed her from this syringe..." "She has a heart murmur, she's going to need an echo, we can't discharge her until it's been sent up to Dallas to be evaluated by the pediatric cardiologists there...."

It's hard to explain exactly how I was feeling, because I wasn't expecting it at all. Sad, because this baby was only 18 hours old, and their family was already having experiences we were somewhat cheated out of? Or does that make me jealous?

At any rate, it's simple to say that as wonderful and incredible as Brooklyn is, our life with her as a baby has not been what most people would consider normal, although it continues to improve all the time. It was not what I expected or pictured when I imagined having a newborn. I have a million and one beautiful memories. But I have a lot that have also, I guess, scarred me as well.

So, this sweet baby's mom asked me if I wanted to hold him. Of course I did. But I have not held a brand new little one since Brooklyn. I took him in my arms and sat down in the chair by the window and let the sun warm my face. The most peaceful feeling had overcome me, pushing away the stress that I usually cannot rid myself of. The baby boy smirked and smiled and made his tiny baby squeaks as I rocked him back and forth. I just let myself feel....relaxed and calm and happy.

And I started thinking.

Time doesn't heal all wounds. Maybe a better experience, a second chance, is what really does.

I feel like time isn't the answer. More than three years since I had delivered my daughter, I was standing there in that recovery room ready to bawl. I felt like I needed to cover my scars like the man who is ashamed of his old wounds that stay exposed for the world to see.

So, for the very first time since having my daughter, I thought that I might be ready to try to have another child. The thought has not so much as crossed my mind in three years; when other people ask me about it, it completely overwhelms me. I can't handle it, I think. But the reason is, my brain has always automatically thought that everything would be just the same as it was the first time for us. We don't know parenthood any other way.

My worries are many.

But I have hope. I have faith that it could be different this time.

And I want to heal these scars.

Doing it on my own: EPIC FAIL.

I have been an extremely bad blogger and reader lately. But I've been bad at a lot of things in my life, and I'm finally going to attempt to explain.

About four months ago, I finished breastfeeding Brooklyn and was able to switch antidepressants. I wanted to get off Lexapro because my doctor had told me that after a year, it caused weight gain. I had suspected that it was already responsible for the weight that had been creeping on and would not go away, no matter what I did. So my doctor had said to call when Brooklyn was weaned, and they would switch me to Wellbutrin, which is better for the weight issue. But when I called, they said I couldn't just switch, I had to wean myself off the Lexapro slowly. I had been taking 20 mg a day. I had to drop back to 10 mg a day for a 2 weeks, then one every other day for 2 weeks, then one every third day for a week. I was supposed to call them for the Wellbutrin prescription when I got down to every third day.

But by the time I got down to that one pill every third day, I decided that I was doing all right. And here's the thing: I was prescribed that medicine for post-partum depression. Can you really say you have post-partum depression anymore when you have a toddler? Hardly. I was a bit more emotional, I cried at more things, both happy and sad. I figured it was just the fact that I didn't have the pills acting as a numbing barrier between me and my life anymore. I decided that I was ready to feel everything again. I stopped taking the Lexapro, and I did not call for the Wellbutrin. I was done.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for feeling like I was all right to turn into feeling miserable. I was sad and unhappy and overly sensitive and angry at everything, I didn't want to go anywhere, I wanted to sleep all of the time, I fought with my husband about ridiculous things that normally wouldn't upset me. I cried countless times every day, again, often about things that weren't even that big of a deal.

Dave didn't get the carseat out of my car before I went to work, so he couldn't go get Brooklyn's prescription like I had asked him to. She was going to miss a dose. It was his off day. Why did he have to be so damn lazy? I was so, so angry. Why should she have to suffer because he doesn't listen to me? Meltdown.

Brooklyn had diarrhea on her Tucker sling an hour before bedtime. I didn't know how I was going to get it clean before she had to go to sleep. Dave was leaving for work. Brooklyn was pulling on my leg screaming and fussing. I stood there bawling.

I don't know. There are probably dozens of these scenarios I'd rather not think about because they just aren't me. Normally. But I let it go on for months. Stubbornness.

I sat at my friend's house and cried and told her about what was going on. "You know what you have to do," she said. "You already told me you're not okay. That's what these medicines are for. You told me that before."

"But how are you ever supposed to know when you can stop? Am I just supposed to be on these pills forever or something? I don't want that. That's ridiculous."

"You tried it without them, it didn't work. You're not ready. You have a lot of stress. You have too much going on. Maybe you can try again in a year or something."

I still did nothing.

On a day when I was at work and had treated my husband particularly badly, I had been ignoring his calls for some time. I finally picked up the phone to talk to him. He told me how frustrated he was with me, but that he knew how bad I had been feeling. "I really think you weren't ready to stop taking your medicine," he said. "You need to call your doctor."

"I'm not same damn psych patient that needs to be monitored on their meds," I snapped back.

"I'm not saying that! You're the only person who thinks that! You're so hypocritical! You work in this job where you tell people they need to get help, where you tell people it's okay to be on these medicines, that they help them, and then you think you're the only person who's above taking them. You won't even tell your own mom about it because you're so damn ashamed of it! I don't get you!"

Here come the tears. "That's easy for you to say. You don't have to take them."

"But I would. If something happened at work or something, and it affected the way things were at home between me and you and Brooklyn, I would do it, and I know you wouldn't judge me for it, right?"

"Hold on." I had to get up and close my office door before the serious waterworks started.

"Okay," I said, "I just don't get it. How can Brooklyn be 18 months old and I still have post-partum depression?"

"Baby. You don't. You just have depression now."

Now I was bawling like a baby. "W-w-w-whyyyyyyy???"

"I don't know why, baby. We just have to deal with it."

"That's not fair. I wasn't like this before."

"I know."

"I hate me. I hate this."

"I know. But Brooklyn loves you, and I love you. And we need you to be happy."

It still took me two weeks to make myself go to the doctor. I did it though. I'm taking Cymbalta now. It's been three weeks, and I'm having a hard time on it. I am starting to feel less depressed, but I'm very, very sick to my stomach and exhausted all of the time. I'm also taking a new medication for my migraines along with it, so I'm not sure if they're working together to make me feel awful. The 14 pounds I've lost is not too shabby though. I'm working through it. This too shall pass, right? Just bear with me, bloggy friends.

So much for doing it all by myself.

Early Childhood Intervention evaluation

The ECI evaluation is a state form called Developmental Assessment of Young Children (DAYC), and it covers five areas of development. Brooklyn had her evalutation yesterday, and it took about two hours. In order to qualify for services with ECI, Brooklyn would have to show a "significant delay" of at least three to four months in at least one of the five areas. She is 18 months old, and in an ideal world, she would score as an 18 month old on everything. But it's not, and here is how she scored out:

1. Cognitive - 21 months
2. Communication - 13 months
3. Social-Emotional - 11 months
4. Physical Development - 12 months
5. Adaptive Behavior - 12 months

So. "Significant delays" in four out of five areas. I really, really did not expect that, and it was like a punch in the stomach. Delays in one or two areas that overlap, yeah, okay, I understand that. But four???

The way that they explained it to me is that most of the problems go back to speech - that Brooklyn doesn't have a word for anything that she wants, that she doesn't initiate using words, that she doesn't show us what she wants or needs with speech or gestures. When she wants something, she gets very upset and just cries and screams, and we are just left to try to play the guessing game about what has her so upset. A major goal is going to be to teach her words and signs to show us what she wants to reduce her frustration and make things happier for everyone.

I know that my baby understands a whole lot of what we say but just can't say it herself, but yet the low "adaptive" score comes from her not understanding what things like "put the block ON the table" or "put the cup IN the bowl" mean. Also, that she doesn't play in "repeated sequences," such as rock the baby, feed the baby, burp the baby....three or four repeated things in a row. I think she seems awfully young to be doing things like that, but what do I know. I cried when she explained this part to me, because it makes me feel like I haven't been doing enough to teach Brooklyn things she should know at her age. The guilt I feel over this is ridiculous. I feel like I have failed my daughter, like a lazy, sorry-ass, unworthy mother.

There were a few things that made her score low that I honestly didn't agree with...like on the Social-Emotional section, at her age, they wanted her to prefer one parent over the other for things like feeding her, changing her, etc. She doesn't. The only thing is that she only wants me to read to her. They considered it a negative that she didnt have a favorite parent for these everyday tasks. That seems strange to me.

The good news from yesterday was that the speech therapist said that she saw NO signs of autistic behavior whatsoever. Thank you, God!!!!

For now, we will have a visit from the speech therapist once per month, the developmental coordinator once or twice per month, and the physical therapist has not contacted us to schedule anything yet. Every six months they will re-evaluate and see whether she is making progress.

The speech therapist said that this differs from a lot of programs where parents take their children to therapy twice per week or something like that. They visit less often and focus more time on teaching the parents strategies to use at home with the children so that the children can be benefiting from the therapy constantly, not just a couple of hours per week. I like that idea. I wonder if the physical therapy is going to be the same way. I honestly worry about that, because when I was supposed to do physical therapy stretches on Brooklyn's neck when she was an infant, it seemed to cause her so much pain that I could not do it. I cried more than she did.

Anyway, we did some initial goal-setting, and the speech therapist gave us just a couple of strategies to start using with Brooklyn at home (giving her simple choices, naming everything).

And that's where we are at right now.

28

I am 28 years old today.

The Blogger logo has a piece of birthday cake with a candle on it today. Do we share a birthday?

09/09/09.

That sounds pretty lucky.

I hope it is.

I am having one of those days where it is hard to even force a fake smile.

I have got to do something to get myself happy. I guess first I have to figure out what that is. I need to find me. I used to know who I was. I used to have an identity.

Brooklyn is the only thing in my life that makes me happy anymore. She is the only wonderful, beautiful, bright, sunny spot in a world of gray. And that means that when she is unhappy, even when it is just grumpy/whiny/sleepy/frustrated typical toddler unhappiness, I am miserable. I feel like a horrible mother, a horrible person when she is not blissfully happy. I feel like curling into a little ball and disappearing. Really, I just want to go to sleep when it's like that (when Dave's home, obviously), but I already feel so guilty about missing out on spending time with my Baby Bear.

There is so much more to this, but it doesn't belong in this post. Most of this really didn't either, but oh well.

I hate being like this.

28 has to get better.

I want a happy birthday. I want a happy 28.

And I close my eyes and wish.

Can I vent for a minute, please?

Dear Father-in-law,

How dare you. When your son calls to tell you how afraid he is that his baby could be autistic, how dare you belittle him and make him feel so small. He called you because this is the same diagnosis that his brother, your other son, has. So he thought you might be understanding for once. Instead of listening, you first had to argue with him and tell him that everything about Brooklyn's development is normal and that everything is fine. Then, when your son tells you, no, her doctors say it's not normal, you get mad and say that it's normal for a baby who has had the medical problems she has had. That you would expect it so why can't we? We just need to deal with it. That we don't know what real problems are. That everything that Brooklyn has had to struggle with her entire little life has never been "anything major."

Then you turn downright ugly and say that if there is something developmentally wrong with our daughter, that it's our fault because we "just strapped her in her carseat or swing and left her all the time" when she was an infant. I'm sorry, but when the hell did this happen?? I seem to remember nearly losing my mind because for months, I would not even put her down so that I could use the bathroom or change my clothes or get something to eat because I could not bear to hear her cry. I recall not sleeping many nights because she would not sleep unless she was being held, and my intense fear of SIDS wouldn't allow me to fall asleep while holding her, and I couldn't even dream of letting her sleep in my bed. Yes, she eventually began sleeping in her carseat, but that's because her doctors told us that was where she needed to sleep because she needed to be elevated.

So please tell me, when the fuck did we EVER just leave her in her carseat or swing and walk away? I still cannot leave her unattended for five seconds. Even when she was asleep in the carseat (on doctor's orders, remember???), she was right beside our bed at night, or right next to wherever we were sitting at the time. We have always talked to her, read to her, sang to her, played music for her, bought all of these developmental toys to play with her, everything we could think of to try to optimize her cognitive growth. We have held and rocked and cuddled and hugged and loved on our daughter more than I ever thought possible. Countless hours.

But you wouldn't know that, would you? You wouldn't know because you are a selfish asshole, and you could count the number of times you have been around your first and only grandchild on your digits. You could count the number of times you've held her on one hand. You lost interest in my pregnancy when we found out that our unborn baby was a little girl. At the hospital when she was born, you wouldn't call her by her name, and repeatedly referred to her as "Brittany" and "Brooke." Instead of an appropriate baby gift, you brought your hours-old granddaughter a hideous dog chew toy in the shape of a pig that was bigger than she was. When your son asked you to hold his pride and joy, you waved him away and said, "Nah. I don't want to." When she was terribly ill and was hospitalized when she was four months old, you came to her hospital room and mocked the IV line in her head, even after hearing how traumatic the experience was for both she and I. She was horribly ill and we were afraid, no one knew what was wrong, and you sat there and laughed at her.

You think that you know so much. You've disregarded our baby's doctors' orders because you believe that you are so much smarter than her specialists. When she was having so many problems with her digestive tract, you fed her meat juice, when all she had ever ingested prior to that point was breastmilk, formula, and baby cereal. You asked Dave if our daughter could have it. He said no. We looked over and not a minute later, you were doing what you wanted anyway. You've run your mouth off many a time, telling us what we need to be doing to "make" her sit, crawl, walk, breathe better, sleep better, gain weight, whatever you thought her problem was on each occasion. Do you think that your son has forgotten that you were scarcely around when he was growing up, and that when you were, you didn't make an effort to be a parent? Do you honestly think that we would believe that you're an expert on any of these matters?

You're the most ignorant, pompous, immature, inconsiderate, heartless asshole I have ever known. How dare you. How dare you crush your own son with your words when he needed you to just shut up and listen, or God forbid, reassure him a little bit. He is scared. He is beside himself with stress and worry. And you respond with talking out of your ass and mindless, unfounded accusations. HOW DARE YOU accuse us of poor parenting and blame us when you are never even around to know that we devote every last drop of our love and energy into making everything right for our precious baby girl. How dare you make us question ourselves. How dare you try to make things worse than they already are with your idiotic lies. How dare you treat our family this way.

The Book of Love

As I was gathering my things to leave for work yesterday morning, my mother in law sat on our couch and chatted away about what she and Brooklyn were going to do that day. She wanted to know where her best walking shoes were. "I read online that she should be able to walk backwards by now," she said. "So I'm going to take her on a walk and we're going to try it."

"Oh, okay," I replied. "Just remember, she's been a little behind on her motor development, so she might not be ready yet, and that's okay."

"Yeah, I know. But she's ahead on some things too. And she only does some of the weird things that Jon did when he was a baby."

I swallowed hard. Jon is my husband's younger brother, who is autistic and mentally retarded. We have not told my mother in law that we are having Brooklyn evaluated by Early Childhood Intervention or that we are afraid something could be wrong with her. She doesn't seem to have noticed that Brooklyn is no longer speaking words. She doesn't know that we are taking her to the doctor this Friday because we are afraid of what this could mean.

I tried to find my words and pushed the lump in my throat back down. "Um. Uh. What does she do that Jon did when he was a baby?"

"Well, you know how she plays by herself, and she gets off in her own little world, and you can't distract her from it? And you say her name and she doesn't look at you or anything? Jon was the only one of my kids who was like that."

"Oh."

"There's a lot of other stuff he did that was off that she doesn't do. So I think she's going to be fine by the time she starts school."

"Yeah." Fake smile. Outside in my car, I make a panicky call to David, and he tries to reassure me and tell me just to wait until Friday. He says things like maybe his mom doesn't remember which child did what. He tells me that all kids "zone out" when they're playing, that it's normal.

Maybe. But maybe not.

I am distracted all day long at work. My fingers think for themselves as they type away at reports on criminals while my mind is racing, playing the "what if" game. At lunch, I look up the age-appropriate milestone checklists again. I read over the possible early signs of autism again. My baby doesn't have all of these warning signs by any means. She still makes eye contact with me, she smiles, she laughs, she talks to herself in her baby language. She doesn't flap her hands or arms or organize her toys into categories. But that big red flag keeps jumping out at me....loss of words. Where did her words go? Why? I try to look for other causes of this, but everything I read mentions that dreaded A-word.

That evening, I leave work and drive across town to pick up one of Brooklyn's prescriptions. I am blaring one of my mix cd's, and Peter Gabriel's "Book of Love" begins to play. The beautiful sounds of the strings fill my ears, and I feel my heart breaking.



Ever since we started trying to conceive, David has had dreams of a little girl, our little daughter, playing a violin. He wants so badly for Brooklyn to play the violin, because I love them so much, and he has dreamed it vividly so many times. It paints a beautiful picture in my head as well. We have been so excited to see that Brooklyn appears to be so musically inclined...she loves to listen to music, she dances to every type of music she hears with a big grin on her face, she seems to feel the notes and chords and rhythms deep down inside her little body. "I can't wait to get her a violin," David said the other night. "I can't wait to hear her play it."

Fear ran through my body as I listened to the song playing, the strings swelling.

What if she CAN'T.

What if she can't do all of these other things that I want for her, that I dream of her being able to do. Doing well in school, becoming whatever she wants to be, getting married, having a family of her own. What if she can't do anything.

What if she's like my brother in law and can't ever live independently? What if, like him, she has to live isolated, trapped as an angry child within a grown-up body, unable to relate to anyone else? What if. Oh. My. God. What if.

I lost it. I sobbed hard all the way to the pharmacy, tears blurring my vision of the traffic, my throat so tight that it was painful to breathe, my chest feeling like it was going to burst wide open. "Dear God," I whispered, "Please let my baby be okay. Please let her start talking again. Don't do this to her. I can't take this."

These fucking what if's, and this fucking waiting game. I am not trying to dwell on the worst possible outcome, and I'm not trying to be negative, especially when we know nothing at this point. I don't want to jump to conclusions or assume anything. But I am so afraid. My mind wanders off to dark places these days, and sometimes I can't bring it back.

This machine cannot communicate these thoughts and the strain I am under....

I knew I hadn't blogged in a while, but I was shocked to get on here and see that it had been just a couple of days short of a month since my last entry.

Allow me to attempt to explain myself.

No, I can't give you a single specific reason why I haven't been writing. I will tell you that I started this blog to be my personal, somewhat-anonymous space where I could say what I wanted, where I could vent and worry and talk about things that I am normally too afraid to talk about in real life. Well, either afraid to talk about or I just don't feel like anyone wants to hear about it. And now, apparently I am getting that way with my blog too.

I could write about how more often than not, my marriage seems to be crumbling. How my husband and I fight for hours at a time, days at a time, yell at each other, and how I want to hit him so badly for saying the hurtful things he says to me. How I have cried so hard that I cannot stop and end up having panic attacks in the middle of the night, because I never, ever thought that we would be like this, and I never would have dreamed that I would feel the way that I do about him so often now.

I could blog about how my brother was living in a Wal-Mart because he has been kicked out of overy homeless shelter in town because he refuses to stop using drugs. I could tell you about the call my parents got from one of my brother's friends, saying that my brother had a cyanide pill and planned to take it soon to end his life. How my parents asked me to help, and so I knew nothing else to do but to use my connections at work to have a probation violation warrant issued for his arrest. I went and told his probation officer's supervisor about every violation that I knew of. I found out where he was going to be dropped off and when on the day said warrant was released. I stayed on the phone with the officers as they found and followed him, and arrested him. How my brother said he would kill himself in jail and my guilt related to that. What kind of person orchestrates her own brother's arrest? Me, apparently, when I see no other way to try to save him from himself. But if something happens to him behind those bars, I will never be able to forgive myself. Because although I am not the REASON he is in jail, I put him there.

I could write about my worst fear in the world right now...that at sixteen months, my baby girl has stopped using all of her words. How every word with the exception of "Dada" has seemingly disappeared from her little mind. That it has been nearly a month since I have heard her sweet, tiny baby voice say "Mama", "baby", "apple", "hi", "hey", "bye", "puppy", "egg", or "fish". That she no longer points at pictures in books, asking to hear the words for everything by saying "This? This?" How I am completely terrified of that horrible, ugly A-word...autism. That my husband is sick with worry over it because it runs in his family. "If she has it," he says, "it would be all my fault." And that it is taking what seems like a million years to have her evaluated or seen by her pedi. That I truly don't know if I could handle that diagnosis. I am so afraid to even think of it as a possibility, to type or speak the word. As if doing so will curse her with that condition or make it suddenly real. It tears me into a million little pieces.

I could write about any of those things.

But I end up pushing it all back down inside, rolling my fear and anger and guilt and sadness and worry into a ball in the pit of my stomach, and not using this blog for what it was intended to be - my only outlet for all of these feelings and fears. I tell myself that no one wants to read whiny, negative entries. That if I write the things that I am thinking, that people will think I am some kind of self-pitying, bitchy, crybaby drama queen.

And then I can't think of anything else I have to say, because all of these horrible feelings seem to consume me completely these days.

And no one wants to hear about that, right?

My disappointing Mother's Day

Today it is dreary and drizzly outside, and it just seems appropriate. I am just having one of those days.

Mother's Day was really disappointing for me. My husband is usually so great about making me feel special and planning sweet little surprises on important days. But yesterday, he said nothing about Mother's Day. We had been up for a couple of hours when I finally asked him if he knew what day it was. "Yeah, it's Mama's Day," he replied. And that was that.

I didn't need him to make a big huge deal out of the day or anything. I didn't need him to buy me an expensive present or plan anything elaborate. I just needed him to acknowledge the day. To give me a card from my daughter or something like that, since she isn't old enough to do so herself. Just to tell me that he knows how hard I am working to be a great mommy to our sweet baby girl. Just....something.

Instead, I pretty much ended up feeling like I must be doing such a shitty job as a mom that I wasn't worthy of a Mother's Day sentiment. If it wasn't for my daily dose of the emotion-stifling Lexapro, I think I would have been doing a lot of crying yesterday. Last night, while my husband slept soundly beside me, I laid in bed staring at the ceiling fan and feeling increasingly worse about myself and my (lack of?) motherly abilities. Today, I feel like I have a hangover from the sadness and disappointment of yesterday. And the weather seems to understand.

The ties that bind us

The Monday night dinner with my parents and little brother was....okay, I guess. Nothing big happened. Nothing terrible.

It's just discouraging, this path that he is headed down. Again.

He is 20 years old and has no plans and no goals for himself. Well, I take that back. He wants my parents to give him his college fund money (from our grandparents) while he is here. He is telling them he wants to go to a technical school in Georgia, but says he doesn't know what for. We know his track record. It is obvious he does not want the money for school. He has no job, no place to live, a girlfriend (yeah, they're back together now) with no job, and a drug and alcohol habit. He and the girlfriend have already had a pregnancy scare in their one month of being together. She has a 16-month-old child that is living with a relative in another state because she couldn't care for him. She is married. She says she's getting divorced, but who knows. My brother talked about fights they have been having - ridiculous, possessive, jealousy-fueled fights that people who have been in a relationship for a month should never have.

My brother told Dave that he couldn't pass a drug test to get a job test now (we knew that). But then he said that he has no interest in staying clean. That he doesn't see any reason to not use drugs. (Really? Are you serious? No reason at all? Not the fact that you have wrecked your life several times over with drug use? You've been to rehab. You've been arrested. Been on probation. Been kicked out multiple times. Totalled multiple cars. Discharged from the Army. Attempted suicide. Hurt your family so badly. Lost friends. You said you knew the drugs were the reason why. You said you were going to get your life straight this time.)

It's so hard to have hope for someone in this situation. I love him so much, I want all of these wonderful things for him, yet he wants nothing positive for himself.

Brooklyn remembers him. It had been four months since she'd seen him, and she reached for him the second she laid eyes on him.

Dave said he doesn't want my brother in and out of Brooklyn's life while he is living his life this way. "I don't want him coming around Brooklyn, around us, until he's clean. He's had chances. This is it," Dave said. He doesn't want our daughter exposed to the hurt that comes with loving someone who is an addict. I understand, but I don't want to take her from him. I know he loves her. No, I do not want him around us when he is high. But I also cannot bring myself to tell my husband that I will agree to this. I already have one brother who we have no contact with because he is a lying, manipulating, violent, hurtful drug addict. My baby brother is basically the only sibling I have now.

I don't want to lose him. But I'm afraid he may be lost no matter what I do. He is heading back down a dangerous road. If something were to happen, I couldn't deal with the guilt...(Could I have done more? I should have been there for him. Why didn't we let him come over? Why didn't we reach out? We shouldn't have bowed out of his life. He needed us and we weren't there....)

It's morbid, but these are the things I think about. The "what-ifs." Especially now that I know he has the capacity (and will?) to try to take his own life.

I don't want to be an only child.

That uneasy feeling

My baby brother is back in town.

He was discharged from the Army at the end of March. Since then, he has been living with a girlfriend that he met when she and her mother were witnesses to the wreck he had when he was trying to kill himself (what a lovely story). He told my mother that he was not going to come back to Texas; he was going to stay in Georgia because the people here are bad influences on him and he needed to make positive changes in his life.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks. On Friday, the girlfriend broke up with him, so he could no longer freeload live with her and her parents. On Saturday, he was back here. On Sunday, he was already hanging out with our other brother and their mutual drug buddies. My father overheard him talking on the phone telling friends that he couldn't wait to get high with them. He takes no responsibility for the things that have happened over the past few months. He has no plans for himself. He is obviously using again. And so the downward spiral continues.

Dave, Brooklyn, and I are supposed to go to my parent's house for dinner tonight. This will be the first time that I have seen or talked to my baby brother since the drug relapse, the suicide attempts and his subsequent Army discharge. We have texted a few times, but I haven't been able to actually pick up the phone and call him. I can't seem to summon up the courage or find the right words. So I just pray. And worry.

I don't feel ready to see him. I don't really know what to say to him anymore. I just have this sick, heavy feeling hanging over me, the kind that stays with you when you are watching someone you love self-destruct. I know that feeling well now.

Yes, it can get worse

Last Friday night, my parents finally were able to talk to my baby brother a couple of days after he tried to kill himself by intentionally wrecking his car. He was very remorseful about the whole situation and seemed to have come to his senses. He told my mom that he didn't know why he had done what he did. He said that he knew that he needed to grow up. He had talked to a psychiatrist and a chaplain on base and knew he needed to get his life back together. He told my mom that he wasn't thinking about how much his actions hurt people that loved him, and apologized to my mom and dad for everything that had been going on lately. He was going to get his life back on track, he said.

My mom called me and told me about her conversation with my brother. "He sounds really good," she said. "He says he's going to call you tonight after he gets done with his extra duty. He says he knows he has hurt you too, and he wants to apologize. When he calls you, will you please listen to him and just talk to him?" I told her that of course I would talk to him.

I waited, but I never heard from him.

On Wednesday, my mom said that she needed to talk to me about my brother. She said that she had found out something on Tuesday, but didn't want to tell me then because it was Brooklyn's birthday. My little brother had attempted suicide again on Monday night by overdosing on pain pills, muscle relaxants, and psych meds. Apparently he took about 70 pills. Tuesday morning, he did not report for duty. They went into the barracks and found him in his room. His pulse was thready, he was not breathing well, and they could not wake him. They took him to the emergency room, and now he is in a psychiatric hospital at a nearby Army base.

He had left a suicide note. Part of the note said that he loved our parents very much and that he was sorry, but that he did not want to put them through everything that they had already been through with our other brother. That makes me so angry. Probably not the emotion I should feel...but come on...if you don't want them to go through all of that again, then don't do the same damn things that our other brother did! Quit with the drugs, quit hurting yourself and everyone who loves you. How the fuck is killing yourself the answer? How is that going to hurt anyone less? I don't get it. It's so damn selfish, and so stupid, and such a waste, and so sad. There is so much that I want to say to him, yet somehow there is absolutely nothing that I can say.

Consequences

When I got home from work yesterday, my mother told me that my youngest brother would be having a hearing with his Colonel at 5:30 this morning to determine his future with the Army.

We learned last week that my brother failed two drug tests during the month of January. The levels on the second one were three times higher than the first.

This life cycle of an addict....I cannot understand it. The destructiveness. What seems to be determination to ruin their own lives. My baby brother is different than the brother in between us. He makes huge strides forward and does good. I have such high hopes for him. I know he is smart, sweet, loving and strong (when he isn't using) and I want only good things for him. I know he can have those things, but only if he will forever abandon the drugs. And he always goes back to them. The reality of this crushes those of us close to him, time and again. Why? WHY? Why do you keep doing this to yourself? You should have so much better.

I slept through my alarm this morning. I was not there....I was in the middle of a vivid dream.

In my dream, I am going to Huntsville to interview an inmate there. I park my car and get into a line of people waiting to cross the highway. I am in a line of military personnel. I pass by a military police officer. In front of her stands a small young man wearing a baggy green jail jumpsuit. He is handcuffed and leg ironed. He stands slumped over, defeated, and I can’t see his face. I end up standing in front of a drill sergeant and we begin to walk across the highway. I begin hearing the military police officer repeatedly say my little brother’s last name. I turn to the drill sergeant and implore him: "Please...I’m his sister...we haven’t heard anything from him and we know his hearing was this morning. Can you please tell me what happened?"

The drill sergeant gives me a confused look and motions towards the slumped over young man in the jail jumpsuit. I take a closer look at the man.

It’s my brother.

I ask him what happened. He says he is going to a military prison for two years. The tears ensue from both he and I. I walk alongside him until we get inside prison walls. I hug him goodbye and tell him I love him and to be strong.

Then I have to tell my family what happened. More tears from everyone.

I don't know if military prison is even an option in his situation. He will probably be kicked out of the Army. Perhaps the bars in my dream represent the way the drugs have trapped him.

I wake up, and it is cloudy and dreary outside. I have this ominous feeling hanging over me. I carry the gravity of the situation on my shoulders like a ton of bricks. I am so sad about the whole thing. I just want him to leave these demons behind him. I do not feel like anything good is going to happen for my baby brother today.

I hope I am wrong. But we all have to live with the decisions we make.

Rejected.

She doesn’t want me anymore.

At least not my milk.

She refused and pushed me away when I tried to nurse her on Wednesday night. I didn’t think much of it, because she just does that every once in a while. But last night, I tried to nurse her three different times. She would not latch on at all. She just pushed my breast away and cried. She was hungry, that wasn’t the problem....she took a bottle, she ate her baby food.

So is our time breastfeeding over? I’m thinking it is. She has never refused me for an entire night. And she usually will at least latch on and nurse for a little bit before she decides she's not into it at that moment.

So last night, I sat in the corner crying while I pumped and Dave fed her baby food. I haven’t had to use that pump at home in months. Rejection. It sucks. I really didn’t think I would take this so hard. It’s probably dangerous to cry as much as I did while hooked to an electric device. But when my baby pushed me away from her with her tiny hand, it felt like my heart shattered. I wasn’t prepared for the emotional jolt. No, Mommy, I don’t need you anymore.

I know that there are things that I have looked forward to, things that I have planned on doing when I am done breastfeeding. But those things are not as important as bonding with my daughter, holding her close while my body nourishes hers. I wish I had soaked it in more. I regret how many times I typed away one-handed on the laptop or watched TV during our nursing sessions. I should have just focused on her and our closeness, because obviously it can be over just like that.

No, I’m not sure how I thought this would happen. I suppose I imagined that the weaning process would be take place over a length of time. A gradual process that I could adjust to. I didn’t think that she would just decide that she didn’t want me anymore and it would just end so abruptly. I wanted her to decide when it would end, but I didn’t think that it would be so soon or so sudden. And I did want to continue breastfeeding until we have safely made it through RSV season....another month or two. She can use all of the help she can get when it comes to avoiding that monster. Another few weeks and we would have made it past her first birthday.

Breastfeeding has never been easy for us. It has been such a struggle for us both from the very beginning. That’s a story for another day. I have worked so hard and pushed through to make it work the best I could because I know that my milk is the best thing for her. She has already had so many challenges with her health....I wanted to give her this.

And I had hoped that this experience would end sweeter than it began.

Fatty McFatpants

Yesterday at work, I started having the nosebleed from hell. It was horrible...I have never had anything like it before. I had been having nosebleeds for the past couple of days, but had attributed it to the fact that several buildings right by my workplace had burned down this week and our building was smoky. Anyways, my hubby had already been on my case trying to get me to go to the doctor before the nosebleed from hell, so he really freaked out when that happened. He made me promise to go to the doctor right then. I still didn't really want to, but then I started coughing up blood. Okay, fine. I decided that Dave was right and that it was worth a call to my doctor.

The nurse said that if I would leave work right then, she would make sure I was worked in. So I did.

My doctor's verdict? Sinus infection. She said it is the most common cause of nosebleeds. Now, I have no medical training of any sort, but if I have a sinus infection, shouldn't my sinuses hurt? Shouldn't I be congested? I have nothing of the sort. I really don't think I have one and don't want to take the antibiotics she prescribed. Is that stupid? I don't know. I had another horrible nosebleed when I got up this morning, so my hubby is picking up the medicine.

So. To the point of my "Fatty McFatpants" post. The nosebleeds were not the most upsetting part of my day yesterday. At the doctor's office, I weighed 19 pounds more than I did the last time I came to see her...which was 5 weeks postpartum!!! I weight what I did the week that I gave birth! I weigh more than I ever have in my life! What the hell???!!! Why am I such a disgusting fatass???? How could I have possibly gained all of that in nine and a half months???? And I should weigh less than that now - for heaven's sake, I had just had a baby last time I was there! I am so angry and frustrated with myself. So disgusted. And I just don't get it.

Beating up on myself was not enough though....my doctor wanted to talk about my weight too. She kept saying that is was "very bad" for me to weigh what I do. That I have to get this off because "that's just not Amanda." She asked me about my diet and didn't see any problems there since I eat healthy almost all of the time. I'm sure all the Cokes I drink don't help....but damnit, I'm operating on about 4 hours of sleep most days. She said that she thinks my main problem is physical inactivity. I told her about my frustrations with trying to exercise. That it was too hot to get Brooklyn out for walks in the summer and it made her breathing worse. Then we had about two nice weeks and then it was too cold to get her out and we cannot afford for her to get sick. How I can't do an exercise video because if I set Brooklyn down and move a foot away from her, she screams like her world is ending. My doctor's response? "Well, you're just going to have to do it."

Gee, thanks. You're so helpful.

Then she guilted me further by saying that I have to lose weight because she doesn't want Brooklyn to grow up in a house where everyone is overweight. And discussed how bad that is for children.

I KNOW!!!! I am TRYING! I absolutely hate myself for the way I look right now! I am sickened every time I look in the mirror or look down at my gigantic stomach and thighs. I am such a gross, nasty, fat pig. I hate, hate, hate, hate myself for it. But I don't know what to do. Somebody help me.

The other side of her

So, I have this coworker who I USED to be very close friends with. I will call her Amy. She started working here about nine months before I became pregnant with Brooklyn. I helped her learn her job and was a friend to her when she wasn't fitting into the little clique on her floor. We went out to lunch and ran errands together a lot. We started walking around downtown together during our lunch hour to get some exercise. We hung out at work every day and talked on the phone most days too.

By the time I got pregnant with Brooklyn, Amy was one of my closest friends. She was one of the first people to find out the night I got my BFP. She was so excited with me, she screamed with happiness and talked on and on about how great it was going to be. "Oh my God," she said. "I can't wait. We're going to throw you a baby shower. We'll have so much fun shopping for baby clothes. We'll paint a big smiley face on your belly and take pictures of it. I want to hold the baby and give the baby a bottle. This is going to be so much fun!"

And it was. Amy calmed my first trimester freakout fears. She helped me decorate Brooklyn's nursery. She did co-host my baby shower. She bought us an expensive baby gift, even when I told her not to. I invited her to be one of the 10 people we could bring to my 3D sonogram.

I was there for her too. I babysat her son. My husband went to her son's "Grandfriends" day at school with him because he didn't have an adult besides Amy to be there with him. She was going through a lot of problems with her son's father and a major custody battle ensued. Her son started having behavioral problems. I was her support. She would always call me to cry and vent and yell about her ex, her son, and other things too.

Amy was at the hospital to see Brooklyn within hours of her birth. She came to see her the next day, also. We had to go to my office to fill out some paperwork when Brooklyn was a week old. Amy held her for an hour and wouldn't let anyone else take a turn. But then, my maternity leave had begun, and I stopped hearing from Amy. I think she called me two or three times for the entire twelve weeks that I was off. During those conversations, she would tell me that she was going to come over. But she never did. And I needed her. We were having such a hard time. Brooklyn had feeding and weight gain problems. Then the reflux started. Then the respiratory problems kicked in, and we didn't know what was wrong with her. I was terrified. I needed her. I couldn't understand why Amy wasn't there for me anymore.

It's true that the phone works both ways. But I was in the throes of postpartum depression. I isolated myself. I couldn't reach out to anyone. Amy is actually the only friend that I told about my PPD. But she still wasn't there.

When I came back to work, things were not the same between Amy and I. We talked, but not as often, and it was just different. We went out to lunch occasionally. We didn't see each other outside of work.

Then, at the end of July, Brooklyn became very ill and was hospitalized for several days. I talked to Amy for a few minutes after Brooklyn was admitted. She didn't come visit. She didn't call to check up on Brooklyn.

Amy came to my office the day after Brooklyn got to come home from the hospital. "So," she said, "You never called me. What's going on with the baby?" I was hurt by the fact that she hadn't even checked on us. I said, "She's home. She's getting better. I never heard from you, so...." Amy got mad and said something about the fact that I could have called. I told her that I was busy taking care of a very sick baby. She acted all taken aback and stormed out of my office. A few minutes later, I sent her a message saying that I didn't understand what she was mad about. She sent back a long reply that she wasn't mad, she was disappointed. That she had done so much for us, and she couldn't believe that I could act this way. That she was angry that I hadn't called her to babysit when she had offered to do so. That I had used her. She said that she knew what it was like to have a very sick child, but that the way I was acting was unexcusable. That I had treated her badly, she didn't appreciate it, and she damn sure wasn't going to take it.

I replied back that I had not used her, that I had been there for her too, that I didn't understand where all this was coming from. She never answered me.

Amy has not spoken to me since. In fact, she has refused to even look at me since then. Even when I have brought Brooklyn by the office to visit a couple of times. She has ignored me, turned around, and walked out of the room. I knew that Amy is a bitter person with a lot of hurt. I knew that she had a quick temper and an angry tongue and got into a lot of confrontations. A lot of people we work with don't like her because of that. But before all of this, she had never been that way to me. She had been a good friend to me.

I really don't understand what happened. And I don't know what to do. It still hurts me. I do miss her. I have thought about apologizing, but honestly, I never so much as said a cross word to her. I don't know what I could possibly have done that would warrant an apology. I have thought about going upstairs to her office and telling her I want to talk the whole thing out and make it all okay again. I've thought about asking her to lunch and telling her I want to put this all behind us. But now it's been over five months since we have spoken. And maybe that's just too long. I don't know if I should just leave things the way they are now. I wonder if all of this should tell me that Amy isn't the kind of person I should be friends with. I don't know what to do. Is it over for good? Why is it so hard for me to have and keep any true friends?

I'm sorry, does this make you uncomfortable?

Sometimes I wonder what the right answer is when people ask how Brooklyn is doing. I'm asked this about a dozen or so times a day at work. When I first came back from maternity leave, Brooklyn was having so many problems, and of course we didn't know what was wrong. So people would ask, "How's the baby?" The first few days, I would actually try to explain what was going on with her health. But after getting some blank stares and some odd responses, I quickly shortened my answers to things like, "Well, she's okay. She has an appointment with a specialist next week." Or..."She's all right. We are about to have some tests done to try to figure out what's wrong with her breathing and why she isn't gaining weight." Things like that. But I keep it short and sweet. People still seem uncomfortable with that. If something positive is going on, I tell them that...for example, "Well, she gained some weight!" Or, "No, she's not better yet, but we found out what's wrong, and that's a huge step in the right direction." Or I'll tell them how excited I am about her sitting up or saying "Mama" or reaching some other milestone. If I go that route, they usually ask about her health next, but it seems like they still don't REALLY want to know.

I don't lie to people. I don't just say everything is great or good or fine with us. Honestly, I don't really feel like I should have to. I know that's the acceptable answer...but am I alone in feeling like if people are going to ask, they deserve a real answer? No, I'm not going to go into detail, but why should I have to give you a fake perfect picture of what my life has been lately? When you specifically ask me how my child is, why should I have to lie to you about it? Just because you might not know what to say?

I know we all do it. When we ask people how they're doing, we generally don't want to hear the truth. It's just a formality most of the time, and all we really want to hear is "Fine."

I wonder what it must be like for parents with terminally ill or very, very sick children. I wonder how they handle the everyday questions about how their kids are without making people squirm. Trust me, I know our situation is nothing compared to these. And I think that's what makes me feel kind of guilty about giving people a real answer. Then they might not think that I'm happy enough about being a mother. They might think I'm just feeling sorry for myself, or that I'm not grateful to have my sweet baby bear. What if they think I am fixated on the negative and don't think that I am totally crazy in love with my adorable daughter?

A few months ago, when we still didn't know what was going on with Brooklyn, when we had tons of tests coming up, when I was terrified of what could be wrong, a former coworker came by my floor at work to visit. He had retired about a year prior, but we had occasionally exchanged emails since then. He knew that I had just returned from maternity leave and that Brooklyn had been having some problems. He asked me how things were going with her. I gave him a little bit longer version of our situation, because I felt like he would be understanding. He was a parent and his first grandson was just a bit younger than Brooklyn. I told him about all her medications, breathing treatments, lack of weight gain, the tests she was having to go through. And his response was, "You know, there are a lot of parents that go through much worse. It's not that bad."

You don't think I know that? You don't think that I feel guilty all of the time because I know there are so many parents suffering through so much more? That I don't think I should be happier or less stressed because other mommies lose their babies, or live with the reality that they could lose their babies any day? I KNOW these things. This man made me feel about two inches tall. I felt like I should never tell anyone anything other than "Everything's fine."

Really and truly though...I don't feel like we should have to apologize or feel bad about for things in our lives that are beyond our control. I don't think that we should have to create a false reality, especially when it comes to our children.

Right now, my reality is this: I have a beautiful, sweet, smart-as-a-whip eight-month-old baby girl. She's the most wonderful thing I could have ever imagined having in my life. Unfortunately, she has some health problems right now. She has laryngomalacia, a problem with her arytenoids, severe reflux, and "failure to thrive." She's been through all kinds of tests and procedures and she has several specialists. She takes multiple medications, but they really don't seem to help. I don't know whether she will outgrow this or whether she will have to have surgery. I hate that I can't fix her and that no one else has yet either. And I get stressed out, and I get scared. And if you're going to ask me how my baby is, I'd appreciate it if you would validate my feelings instead of making me feel like a terrible person for telling you the truth. I'm not asking you to feel sorry for us, because Lord knows there are many, many others who you should feel sorry for before us. But please, just don't make me feel worse about a situation that already makes me feel bad. Thank you.

Thoughts, anyone???

#$^@&%!

I am so damn mad today. I don't have one specific reason why or anything in particular that set me off...I'm just angry. And anger is not really my emotion of choice. I don't like it, and I'm not usually like this.

But I spent much of my day at work halfway wishing that one of my clients would try to attack me so that I could kick and hit the crap out of them. When I got gas on the way home, I thought, "If someone tried to rob me, I would get to stomp the hell out of them, and it would be okay."

What is that all about??? Weird. I know it is.

Don't worry, I would never actually haul off and hit someone, no matter how good I think it might feel. That's not my style. I bottle it up and pretend all is well instead.

Part of the problem, I think, is that for the past week, I can't cry. I feel profoundly and deeply sad, and all I can do is just feel sad. I'm on the verge of crying my eyes out, but nothing happens. I feel like a huge rock is stuck in my throat, my heart is beating fast, my stomach ties itself into a thousand knots, I feel shaky/panicky/anxious. My thoughts race with all that I am worried and sad about. And no tears, even though I feel like I really, really, need to let them out. Is my medicine doing this to me or something??? I truly don't know.

I'm so mad that Brooklyn's doctors can't figure out what is wrong with her. I'm so angry that she has to be in pain. What could she have possibly done in her 6 short months of life to deserve to hurt so much? She screamed for over an hour tonight, horribly sad, painful, gut-wrenching screams. When she's like that, her face is so sad, it breaks my heart wide open. She makes these pitiful "ooohh ooohh ooohh" noises when she calms down a bit from the screaming, and she's still crying, and the noises just sound to me like "Help me, mama, please, help me" and I CAN'T. I do everything I know to do and nothing works. She's in pain...I know she is...you can't hear these cries and believe otherwise...she's arching her back and those screams just aren't normal. She hasn't been able to eat well since last night...lots of gagging and screaming at the bottle. I just want to crumple up into a ball and sob with her as I rock her, because I'm so damn sorry I can't fix it. It feels like a knife is being twisted into my heart. But of course, I can't cry with her because I can't cry.

I'm angry that we have to wait so long to even take the next step to try to find out what the problem is. I'm pissed that this many pediatric specialists are having this hard of a time figuring her out. Is it seriously that hard??? I'm angry that I keep having to put her through all these tests. Are we even doing the right thing? I don't really know.

Then I am mad about our financial situation, how Dave got demoted at the worst possible time. I'm trying to figure out how we are going to afford everything. We got an unexpected phone bill for $368 from our old phone company today. That's going to be half of Dave's check. It's so stupid. How are we going to afford that??? I don't think the bill is correct. I called customer service and griped at the lady on the phone. I hoped she would get rude with me so that I could yell at her, but no such luck. She put me on hold for 20 minutes and I just gave up.

I'm pissed off that my place of work won't help us out by letting me use the sick leave pool to take care of Brooklyn. That the HR woman repeatedly shows how little she cares by refusing to lift a finger to call me back and tell me that she doesn't really intend to try to help me. I'm mad that I don't have the money to be able to afford to take time off without pay to take care of my little baby bear.

She is so, so wonderful. After I got home from work today, she grabbed both of my cheeks and pulled my face against hers. So incredibly sweet. I'm angry that I can't enjoy this more because I am constantly so sad and scared and upset. Why can't I just be happier? I'm so grateful and so blessed and have everything to be happy about. What the hell is wrong with me? Seriously, who does things like this???

On top of everything, I get pissed at myself for being mad. And I feel so guilty for feeling the way I do. There are so many people that have it so much worse than we do. I know that. Parents whose babies are much sicker than Brooklyn, who have something wrong with them that can't be cured, who are terminally ill. I know that there are mommies who have lost their babies and I can't even imagine their pain. I don't have things nearly as bad as those people. Thinking of their situations makes me feel so guilty every time I talk to anyone about Brooklyn's medical issues. I feel like I don't have the right to even say anything that might make it seem that I am not so, so thankful for all we have. I know things could be so much worse. Trust me, I do. So I feel like a whiny, complaining little brat when I tell people what's going on...even the super short synopsis. I really hope that others don't see me that way, but I'm afraid that they might.

I just want to scream so bad...but I can't. I'm holding my baby and she is finally sleeping. And I feel a little bit better after venting here. Thanks for listening.

The space between us

I never, ever, ever would have thought that starting a family would be so hard on my marriage.

Last night, my hubby told me that he doesn’t feel close to me at all anymore. He wanted to know whether I still loved him. If I knew that he loved me. He said that he feels completely useless and unwanted.

Not that any of this was really news to me. We have had abbreviated versions of this conversation several times over the past few months. There is such a distance between us now. I think it’s just the stress we’ve been under, but I don’t know. We don’t have time for each other. We are often in the same room but barely talk to each other. We snap at each other over seemingly minor things. I have absolutely no desire to be intimate with him.

David said that there are three things that really upset him: 1. He can’t “fix” Brooklyn’s medical problems. 2. Because of that, he can’t “fix” me (the post-partum depression). 3. He doesn’t think that I am at all attracted to him anymore. He feels like he has had to almost force me to have sex with him the few times it has happened since Brooklyn was born. He doesn’t feel wanted.

I can’t seem to make him understand that it really isn’t anything personal. I am so, so, so tired and so, so, so stressed out. I know he is both of those things also. But I can’t ever put it aside. I stay sad and weepy and exhausted. I feel guilty and inadequate. I am anxious and worried and scared. I use what little energy I have at the end of the day to take care of Brooklyn. To try to be happy around her. To try to be a good mommy. I don’t have any energy left for what he wants from me.

Furthermore, as a man, he doesn’t comprehend that I can’t be in the mood to be close in that way when I don’t feel close to him in any other way. And I can’t really explain why we aren’t close in any other way now.

David and I were so close and such good friends that we didn’t have problems with some things that are regarded as being hard on a marriage. “The first year of marriage is the hardest year you will ever have,” we were repeatedly told. Our first year was a breeze. No problems. “Working opposite shifts will put a toll on your marriage,” they said. Nope. We made time for each other and we were great. We felt like we were closer than most couples were and thought that was the reason we didn’t have a hard time with those things.

This is not to say that our relationship has always been perfect. Of course not. But when there have been problems, we have quickly worked through them. And now it seems that we can’t. I don’t know what to do.

“I wish I was better,” he said. I asked him what that meant. “A better husband. A better dad. A better provider so you didn’t have to work.”

“I wish I was better,” I told him. “I should be happier now than I’ve ever been. I have to take these damn pills just to deal with life, and they don’t even really work. I’ve always wanted what I have right now, and I can’t be happy. I don’t understand.”

The stranger I once knew

So this morning, I was about to walk into my office building. I happened to glance over my shoulder before entering the building and saw a homeless man walking across the street. He was rail-thin and bald. He was wearing a backpack, sunglasses, and headphones, and walked with his head down. He was a pitiful sight. A body eaten away by drugs. A poster child for why children should just say no. I froze and stared. He didn’t look my way. My thoughts raced as I debated whether I should say something to him. Should I run across the street and catch up to him? Call his name?

How did I know his name? Why would I talk to him?

He’s my little brother.

And I chose to silently turn around and walk into my office building. The security guard inside had seen me staring at my brother. He gave me this raised-eyebrow look, like, "Yeah, look at that crazy guy." I stuttered, "Ummm, no, uh, that’s my middle brother." "Oh...sorry." "No," I said, "the look you gave me was right. Don’t worry about it."

I went up the elevator to my office. I looked out the window. I couldn’t see him anymore. Gone. Just like that. Almost like seeing a ghost.

When I think about it, I did see a ghost...a ghost of my past, a ghost of my childhood. A ghost of the brother I knew before methamphetamine and cocaine and LSD and pills and pretty much every other drug he could get his hands on turned him into a person I don’t know. Before he tore apart my family time and time again, and before he broke our trust a million times over.

And now I see him on the street, and he doesn’t see me, and I don’t say anything. I walk away because I don’t want to be hurt again.

My brother. My flesh and blood. How sad is that?

Bonded?

Today when I came home from work, I picked Brooklyn up and she started fussing. She was fine until I held her. And that was all I had been wanting to do all day long. It broke my heart.

I am scared that she is going to be closer to her grandmothers and my hubby than me. It shouldn't be that way. It makes me so sad. I just want to be at home with her. I think Mondays are the worst for me at work because I have been glued to her all weekend, and I feel completely lost spending the day without a baby in my arms. Or attached to my boob.

Sometimes I feel like the only thing I can do to make Brooklyn happy is nurse her. That's the one thing I can do with her and for her that no one else can. I love to hold her against me and know that I am giving her the best nutrition she could possibly have. I rub her back and stroke her fuzzy hair while she eats. I gaze at her delicate little face, watching all of her expressions, in awe of her rapidly changing features. Sometimes she grasps my finger with her tiny hand, or holds on to my shirt. She feeds for a loooong time, and then lays her head on my breast to sleep. I don't mind how long it takes...I feel so bonded to her then. I love our cuddle time.

So, nursing is good. But sometimes it seems like that's all I've got. If that's the only way I can soothe her, and the best way I have to bond with her, what happens when she's not breastfeeding anymore? I'm scared she won't have any use for me then.