When I was vacuuming my living room floor yesterday afternoon, I had a panic attack. I could not stop the tears, could not catch my breath, could not stop the thoughts that were trying to pull me under. I was lost in a spiral of “Of course my husband doesn’t love me, he didn’t shovel the back steps for me. He doesn’t care that I’m worried about slipping and falling, he just doesn’t care at all. Why would he, I’ve been a terrible wife and mother, he obviously thinks I’m lazy and gross because he says the house is a shit hole every time he comes home, why would he care enough to shovel the stairs?” It was on repeat, over and over until I made myself cry. And I couldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop.
So basically everything that I was worried about with this pregnancy came true. It was sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy, I think, but even still I’m a bit in shock at how deep my feelings actually went. I went into this pregnancy so scared to go back to the headspace I was in two years ago, and here I am. Crying alone in the bedroom because I convinced myself my husband doesn’t love me.
It’s been building, I’m aware of that. Work has been stressful. There hasn’t been much support with my team in the classroom, I’m letting things slide and not being the educator I usually would be. I’ve shouldered most of the stress of the room and it’s gotten to me. Every day my stomach is in knots just thinking about going into work, and I come home so exhausted that I can barely even breathe, much less parent. It takes everything in me to make it until bedtime, and then I lay awake and I can’t sleep. I’m so tired. My patience is so thin. I’m snapping at G. and L., my poor husband can’t catch a break, it feels like my life is shambles.
Through all of this, I know I’m neglecting myself. I haven’t made any time for myself. I’m disassociating with romance novels and TikTok, but that isn’t the same. I’m drowning in carbs and screen time and none of that is healthy. I’m fully aware of this, but I’m just so tired I can’t be bothered to even try. I thought vacation would help, but it hasn’t. Every day S. asks things of me around the house, the kids need time and attention, and all I want to do is sleep and read and just exist. And so. It all came to a head when I found myself gasping for breath around the tears on my bed because the cord from the vacuum knocked over a can of Pepsi and spilled on my freshly washed floors.
I need to go back to counselling. It’s got to happen. I’m going to call my therapist in the new year and set something up. I’m so scared. I don’t want to fall apart again. It was so hard to start putting the pieces together, and I don’t know if I can do it again.