Postnatal depression is kicking my arse. I’m medicated and things are brighter, yes, but they’re not brilliant. I’m learning to accept that this is what is it, at least until this particular downswing passes.
I keep dreaming that my grandmother is alive. Technicolour dreams, full of details and realities. It started with one a week and now it’s every night. Some nights it’s just like things were before. Other nights, I’m watching her die, over and over again. Last night my pillow was wet when I woke up. I’d been streaming tears in my sleep.
It’s weeks like this past one that I’m grateful that it’s still Summer outside. The greenhouse is full of pumpkins and tomatoes and I can hide in there for long minutes at a time, tying things up and training them to run along a string. Gardening makes sense and you can see the results of work in the garden.
Some things are better and some things are worse. Until I can get my brain working again, I’m in a holding pattern and that’s okay.