my favorite and my best

My sweet boy will be four months old next week. Four! I've always thought of four months as the age when babies really start to get fun, and while it's true he's becoming much more interactive, every stage so far has been unbelievably special in its own way. (Although, a couple weeks ago he started GIGGLING--be still my heart!) He fills a space I didn't know was empty. It's like my entire being went, "Oh, there you are. I've been waiting for you." There is nothing more satisfying then this little guy. 

At the hospital the morning after his birth, Nov. 6, 2013.

Conversations by the Christmas tree. He loved looking at the lights.

Snow angel baby - his first time actually out in it!

Absolutely melts me - we turned this one into Valentine cards.

And yesterday, studying up. It's good to be prepared! :)

I'm also happy to report that I seem to be through the roughest patch. Yoga helps, as does working. I've been making sure to feed myself well and take a little time here and there to just be alone (and, say, shower). As always: On you go. And soon it will be spring. 

well, shit.

Rule your mind 

or it will rule you.

Buddha

. . .

The world feels so heavy right now. I don't know how to shake it, how to set it down. I'm waiting for the fog to lift, but I have a feeling the only way out is through: Can't go over it, can't go under it, we'll have to go through it.

I kind of hate that.

So I lose myself in journals and dreams and puddles of tears, clinging to a hint of possibility and relief. In public I attempt to "fake it until I feel it." I'm good at the first part, but the feelings rarely follow.

I read about a study the other day that said most people who were diagnosed with depression as children are probably actually bipolar. I was ten.

A year or so after my diagnosis, when the fog started lifting, I remember the psychologist telling me to be careful, that I'd find myself missing the depression at times. It had defined my identity and way of being for so long, and now I had to figure out who I was without that old, destructive friend.

Until now, I pretty much thought my depression was over and done and under control. It would come back and try to set up camp every now and then, but I could recognize it. After a bit of polite resistance, I'd finally tell it to pack up and leave, locking the door behind it.

(Source)

But pregnancy hormones are something new, and they seem to have left a window wide open. And it's hard, and I'm scared. I am struggling, and I'm trying to believe that this does not make me "less than" -- that having depression does not dictate who I am at my core. It doesn't mean I'm a horrible mother or teacher or person. It is separate from who and what I am. It is an ILLNESS, not an identity.

So onward, trusting that, eventually, I'll find the light again.