The bubble, it's bursting.

All is not rainbows and balloons and sunshine at my house. In fact, far from it. I’m back to being clinically depressed and hating my life. The bottom started falling out (again) when Baby was around sixteen weeks old, and it’s gotten progressively worse. I’ve got an appointment with a psychiatrist next week and anticipate being put on some meds. I’m hoping I won’t have to wean Baby. Dr. Google informs me that Zoloft is considered the safest antidepressant to take while breastfeeding, so that’s my guess of what’s in store for me.

I still feel that an antidepressant isn’t going to change my situation, that I’m stuck in a life I can’t bear, but I’m so miserable I’m willing to try anything. I have days that aren’t so awful, but then I have days that are soooo bad, so very, very bad. I can’t continue to have days like that. Drug me, numb me, do whatever it takes to stop this pain and suffering.

B. is of no use. He just doesn’t get it. I’m not able to talk to him at all, he thinks I should just be grateful for all my myriad blessings. I suppose he’s right, but that way of thinking doesn’t make me feel better, only worse.

Now it appears that I might not be able to go on a trip with friends that we’ve been planning since last year. I would be leaving all three kids with B. and while he’s great with the twins, frankly, he can’t manage Baby. At all. Once again, my needs have to come last and I must sacrifice for the kids.

Please keep me in your thoughts. I hope I can wade my way out of this murky depth.