A Day in the Head of a Mental Mama

I wake up anxious. Before my feet hit the bedroom floor my mind is racing through all of the tasks I am supposed to complete that day. I worry about the baby. Will she be fussy today? I can’t handle that today. Will she eat well? Will she be constipated again? Is she cutting teeth? I can’t handle fussy today.
I don’t eat breakfast. I have my morning dose of medication and a cigarette, hoping the tremors will stop before J wakes up. I worry when I feed the baby, because she spits out her food sometimes and I am afraid she won’t get enough to eat. If she doesn’t get enough to eat, she will be fussy, and I can’t handle that today. When she’s fussy, I get angry at her. I know it’s not her fault, she’s just a baby, but I can’t stop myself from feeling angry.
I get angry when my mom is at work and the baby is fussy. Why do I have to deal with this alone? She should be home helping me. She’s abandoned me. In reality, she is working to help support both the baby and I, and I have no reason to be angry at her. But again, I can’t stop myself. I get mad at her when she gets home and wants to relax. What about me? I haven’t had a chance to relax all day. There were chores that needed done; clothes to fold, bottles to wash, floors to clean. Too many chores and I failed today because I didn’t get them all done. I’m a failure.
My mood is different sometimes. I can go to bed happy and wake up sad. I can have a bad dream that leaves me waking up hurt because it felt so real and I am so sensitive. That happens when I sleep, which isn’t often. I usually wake up tired, after another night of no sleep. I toss and turn reliving the mistakes of my past and worrying about the mistakes I will make tomorrow. I run through the list of people who have hurt me. Then when the sun rises, so do I, and I wake up anxious.
I don’t eat breakfast. I don’t eat lunch. I’m just not hungry. I hate the way I look since I had baby J. I have never been so heavy. I want to eat, because I know my body needs nourishment. I don’t want to eat because I am afraid of getting bigger. I take a shower, style my hair, and do my makeup in attempt to make me like myself. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. What will people think of my hair? Will they notice the acne on my chin? Will they see how my face has filled out? What can I wear? Everything is too tight, too small, nothing fits right and I am too ashamed to buy a bigger size. So I wear a baggy t-shirt and a baggy sweater hoping no one will notice my stomach and arms.
I take care of the baby the best I can. I want to spend more time with her, play on the floor with her instead of obsessing over the housework that is taunting me and that I have no motivation to do. I want to read my daily devotional, but I can’t focus long enough. I want to color. I learned it as a coping skill the last time I was in the hospital. But I can’t, I shake too much from my medication and can’t concentrate. I feel like crap when I go outside the lines, like I’ve failed in a tiny way. I take care of the baby the best I can. I meet her basic needs of feeding, changing, playing, and sleeping. Am I a good mom? Does she love me? Would she even know, or care, if I were’t around? Does she enjoy my presence? Will she someday wish she had a mother who wasn’t bipolar?
The end of the day comes and I am anxious. Anxious about yesterday, about the mistakes I made. Anxious about today and what I didn’t get done. Anxious about tomorrow because I don’t know if I’ll be feeling up or down when I wake up.
I go to bed anxious.