meditations of a blueberry

The last of my babies sleeps on my body. Every night, when I lay my head on my pillow and pull the covers over my body, she usually worms her way to my armpit so that my arm must go either under her or at an awkward angle over and around her head. An awkward angle that any cosleeping parent knows well. Some nights, she is directly on my chest with her head wedged into my neck in such a way I'm surprised I don't wake up with a crick in my neck. And some nights, like tonight, she's tossed and turned and now lays with her head snuggled into my soft belly. I complain every night. I like my space when I sleep. I am a tummy sleeper. But, I deal with it and try to move my body slowly into a comfortable position for me while still not disturbing her. It doesn't usually work. I usually end up back in some contorted position just to keep her happy so she can nurse. I really should start insisting she sleep in her own bed. I really should night wean her. All the bo...

A phone call. An anxious voice reaching out, finally admitting that it's time to ask for help. A racing heartbeat as that voice whispers the words "mental health issues" to the listening ear on the other end. Embarrassed. As if it's something to be shameful about. As if a broken brain is different than a broken arm or broken stomach or broken lungs. Afraid. That my doctor would tell me that what I've been experiencing for most of my life is normal. That I'm silly or "making a big deal" out of things and that this is just how life is. This was me several weeks ago. I finally decided that I needed to talk to my doctor.  Shame flooded my whole body when the nurse asked me the reason for the appointment. Why? Why did I feel the need to whisper, especially since nobody was around me? When I went into my appointment, my doctor validated everything I have been feeling off about. She gave me a game plan to help offset the damage my brain is trying to ...