Toward the end of last year, I was on a rollercoaster—a mental, emotional, and physically taxing rollercoaster. While my highs and lows may have been a result of (or at least exacerbated by) my pregnancy hormones, they were still very real. My condition, plus other situational factors, just amplified the issues and wounds that had been festering for awhile.
October was particularly difficult, and I started writing about it in my “october… (pt. one)” post. I had fully intended to publish a “part two,” but at the time, I didn’t have the strength or mental capacity to continue on with it.
I realized that I was so deeply unhappy with myself that I couldn’t even look in the mirror. If I did happen to catch a glimpse of my reflection, I didn’t recognize the person staring back. I pretended not to care about my appearance after awhile, citing “#thatquarantinelife” and “#workingfromhomewithababyatoddlerapreteenandateenlife.” Though these are legitimate stressors, they are also excuses. BS excuses.
Sure, times are hard and you don’t have to be perfect, but when you start to feel disgusting in your own skin (and there’s something you can do about it, but you just don’t), there is something wrong. In my particular case, there was no one to blame but myself.
Because we haven’t wanted to make a big deal out of it given the current social climate, not many people know that we bought a house this year. But truthfully, it’s a BIG EFFING DEAL. We still can’t believe it. Coming from Southern California, we never expected to own a home. At best, it was a far off goal.