Through 9 months of pregnancy, my body felt so foreign to me. Every day I’d wake up and be caught off guard about the body I was inhabiting.
When I went into labour, or rather, when my body went partially into labour, this disconnect evidently continued. While it’s true, I was psychologically defeated as well as physically defeated, I view my “birth story” as “the day my body failed me”.
Two weeks into being a mother, when Charlie would fight going to sleep at night, or constantly nurse all morning, I felt every part of me was a failure. My milk wasn’t enough to sustain her. My love was not enough to soothe her.
I’m a logical person. I know that these are feelings that all mothers feel at some point, and are very common especially in the early weeks. I know I have enough milk for her (there is no shortage to her diaper changes), and I know there is enough love.
While my body may have bared the brunt of my perceived failures, I cannot deny that it at least exists. I can see it. I can feel it. What scares me the most is that while I feel so disengaged from my body, it’s actually the non-physical version of myself I can’t detect any more. While I’m sure it’s there, I’m just inferring it’s presence. I can’t see me. I can’t feel me. I just have to believe I still exist, even if I’m just there as dark matter.