I sit here crying my eyes out over the stupidest thing. My pants ripped right in the crotch area when I sat down. Why am I crying over ripped pants you ask? Because ripped pants means I don’t Actually fit back into my pre pregnancy clothes. On top of not fitting into those clothes I also don’t fit into my pregnancy clothes, they are so big on me the shirts look like dresses at this point. “So what” most of you might say, acting like it’s not a big deal. It is a big deal. I have nothing to wear to make me feel human, let alone anywhere near sexy. The bras don’t fit because the only boobs I’ve ever had in life drifted away as my milk dried up. The underwear is too big seeing as how my ass has suddenly decreased in size. I felt so good when I was pregnant. I didn’t get big at all in my belly but my whole body seemed to blossom like a rose with my pregnant glow. I felt secure for once, I was happy. Now I sit here looking at the hole in my jeans wondering if I will lose this weight that no longer looks good on me. Wondering if my sagging boobs will ever be worth looking at again. Hoping that I don’t lose the little bit of ass that I currently have. Being 5’11 isn’t easy for a woman to begin with. But now I’m 5’11 with fat rolls and stretchy skin and sagging body parts. Will I ever feel beautiful again? Will my fiancé ever look at me with the longing that he used to? Will I ever not be jealous of the porn he watches or the women he looks at? Anxiety anxiety anxiety. So as I sit here crying over a very nice pair of jeans that has a rip in the crotch, I somehow start to believe my body is ruined. Will I ever fit into the “hot” category again in my life or am I doomed to have a mom bod forever. Maybe I should hang up my jeans that I’ve loved all my life. Maybe I should instead live in sweat pants and oversized T-shirts to hide my ruined body. Pregnancy was kind to me but I wasn’t lucky enough for post-partum to be kind. My baby was worth the pain, she was worth the discomforts, she was worth the sleepless nights. But this body is so beyond repair that I don’t know if I’ll ever recognize myself in the mirror again. To say I hate myself is an understatement. Do all women feel this way or should I seek out help for the post-partum depression everyone is so scared of? Honestly if it is PPD it doesn’t feel much different than regular depression. Does seeking help make you a failure? It shouldn’t. But who is brave enough to sit down and talk to a stranger about this shit. Who is brave enough to tell someone that they hate themselves, their body, the way their mind works. To have someone pick you apart and ask personal questions probably isn’t something that’s right for me. I pick myself apart constantly and I don’t need someone starting at me from the other side of a little office trying to figure out how depressed I am. So instead of seeking out help and feeling a complete failure I’m sitting here letting myself cry over a rip in a piece of fabric. Have you ever cried over spilt milk and felt better afterwards, just because you got a chance to cry and get it out of you? If yes, then try crying over ripped fabric.