Days, weeks, months have passed since my last post. They’re much the same – good and bad days, few tears, plenty of doubts and guilt, and the dream of finally feeling ‘normal’ again. Whatever normal is.

At the end of the year, I visited my psychiatrist one last time before switching insurance, in hopes of reaching for one last lost thing – my creativity. Formerly an avid writer of fiction, jewelry artist, and seamstress, my desire to create in these areas has turned to dust and blown away. I thought the combination of Zoloft, Risperidone, and Klonopin that eased me through the worst of PPDA was now quashing my interest in anything. We removed the Risperidone – which had elevated my levels of prolactin so much that I was still lactating, though I’d stopped nursing and pumping nine months before, a harsh reminder – and Klonopin, and chose to cross-taper the Zoloft to an SNRI. The process left me sleepless and exhausted, and feeling like I was backsliding.

I feel like I am the strangest picture of motherhood. I have a perfect child who plays independently, sleeps through the night, and tolerates strangers. I am showered, rested (mostly), my house is clean, and my laundry is done. Yet my days are painful and empty. I’m guilty for all these good things, and resentful of my lack of recovery. I thought I was better.

I desire desire. I wish every day for the motivation to do more than clean and care for my baby. And at the same time I feel guilt that my child isn’t enough. I’m told I am still my own person; it doesn’t connect. Nevertheless, I keep trying. That’s all I can do.

Separation

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