I have pushed and pushed and pushed.
Everyday is a battle.
I have come to the point where I have to mentally prepare myself before I do anything.
Mentally cheer myself on before I walk into the gym. Mentally tell myself I have five seconds. Then five more seconds. Then five more seconds. Each day my energy wanes more and more.
I really don’t think its physical.
Mentally force myself to summon a grimace before I enter the house.
Mentally stop myself saying anything cutting to my family who love me.
Mentally assemble my thoughts and mould them so they are in a position to study and analyse.
Mentally absorb the fury and frustration towards my husband. He tries. But not hard enough. Sometimes all I need is a few moments of eye contact.
Today I smelled a perfume I used to wear up until a few months ago and suddenly I am back in a place of pain and shock and I know it was only five weeks old but I didn’t really talk about it or think about it, I pushed it to the back of my mind and carried on because that is what Damian did but smelling that strong white musk reminds me of the little blob that caused me so much pain and I am not mourning its loss, I don’t know what I am mourning, but I need to mourn. I need to cry. I need to… something.
I think the scent of this perfume is triggering all sorts of thoughts that I have kept hidden without realising, and I am not thinking these thoughts but my emotions are in tune with them.
Mentally push myself to drag the remaining congealed dregs of physical energy to play with the baby. Last night I collapsed in the bed and cried a little, and after a few moments I heard her little feet patter into my room as they frequently do.
I heard her pause for a few moments.
Then I heard her tiny feet patter cautiously, slowly, towards my bed.
A little clamber.
I felt her warm chubby cheek on mine.
“You otay?” her baby voice whispered. She then proceeded to stroke my hair and give me sloppy two year old kisses. I couldn’t open my eyes. I felt as though lifting my eyelids would make me topple over the edge into oblivion.
My stomach was a ball of slowly unfurling knots. I was queasy and weak.
She stayed with me for a good half hour, lying next to me and tracing the outline of my face, her tiny finger going over my eyebrows, along the bridge of my nose, along my lips and over my ears and hairline. Her little voice rose and fell as she told me stories of monsters and spiders and Peter Rabbit. She told me about not hurting spiders and holding them gently. She told me she went to the “libey” with Mama and “dot lotsa books”. She analysed my face and told me I have “flee spots” (three spots).
She soothed me, this little two year old ball of love, with her fluffy golden hair and her pink cheeks. She told my husband he was “bad” when he walked in at 9pm, and said he should leave me alone because I am tired.
She can be very observant and compassionate. She let him kiss me, though, then pushed him away and pulled the covers over me, tucking it just below my chin.
All this while my eyes were closed.
“I love you baby,” I murmured.
“I lub you too” she said, patting my nose.
How I long to be tranquil.