S. asked me if I'm angry. After reading my blog. I was quick to defend myself. No way. I'm not angry at all. I'm getting it all out through writing, you see. So why did I feel like shaking my ten-month old yesterday afternoon when he wouldn't stop whining? Can I blame PPD for everything? Is blaming PPD not taking responsibility? Can one even take responsibility for one's thoughts and impulses? Dr. S. reminded me yesterday to deeply accept myself and all my emotions, even negative ones about my Dad and my baby. So when I allowed myself to feel something, allowed the nasty stuff to bubble up, I felt like smashing M. against a wall. Dr. S. would call it a metaphor. Of course, I'd never act on my impulses. I never do. That's why I'm all verklemmt, and I'm talking about the original German meaning. Brooke Shields wrote about that, wanting to hurt herself and her baby, and at the time I didn't understand, couldn't understand. And who can I tell aside from Dr. S? The anonymous masses are a brutal audience. The world is a place of forgiveness for the Dalai Lama. It isn't for me. I'm alone in this. I suppose I'm an existentialist and that's a dark and terrible thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment