One of my hardest struggles with mental health is that when I am depressed, I find no pleasure in any activities. The things that I love fail me at every turn. Even the easiest and favorite of my pleasures like television shows, reading, and video games are lost to me. There exists no effortless dalliance for me.
Postpartum depression has also stolen the pleasure of my son from me. The pleasure of motherhood. I find myself empty, waiting to be filled, but everything poured into me seeps out into this illness. This has been my greatest struggle and complaint during this time; the lack of meaning in my moments and days, in my efforts and work.
Today was one of the hard days. Everything was a chore (besides the actual chores) today… everything BUT Ben. Today was different. I could find no enjoyment in an hour of crafting work, but I found peace in every feeding. Watching my son smile, talking back to him as he tries out new babbles, these finally bring a sense of meaning, a weight to all my work. A reason for my life.
I still crave more. I want meaning back in the things I choose to do besides motherhood. In my jewelry. In my writing. So I try, just a little, and find the smallest of success, and keep going.