I wish I hadn?t waited so long to go to therapy
I?m twenty-six years old and I find myself sitting in a small room across from Dr. Sherry, both of us seated in large, comfortable leather chairs. I?ve got my feet curled up under me, and my cold hands wrapped around a mug of decaf coffee. The clock on the wall reads 11:06am, which means I?ve got exactly one hour and fifty-four minutes before the second lunch bell rings sending my class of grade two?s back into the building for our math lesson. My one-year-old is at home with his nanny; I?ve told her I have ?errands? to run.
I?m here, in therapy, because I am not myself. Motherhood is what I?ve always wanted and yet happiness seems impossibly out of reach. I wake up exhausted, constantly feeling like I am not doing enough, being enough, that I?m not enough. I?m trapped inside my mind, overthinking and overanalyzing every little thing. Is my son gassy because of allergies to my breastmilk" I take an ax to my diet. No dairy, no sugar, no gluten?no coffee! What if he forever relies on nursing to help him fall asleep" I let him wail into the night even though it?s torturing me. What if he doesn?t nap enough and develops ADD" I say no to playdates, to sunny days outside. I become a prisoner inside my own house to ensure the crib is near when he shows signs of tiredness. I yell at my husband for walking too loudly down the hallway. You?re going to wake him up and he?s not finished a full sleep cycle yet! I am so deeply afraid of making a mistake. I keep returning t...
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