…I’m so over getting 3 to 5 hours of sleep in a twelve hour shift.
And I’m so over a God who promises to answer persistent prayers and then doesn’t.
All I want is for her to start sleeping better. I can deal with a whiny, needy baby all day. I can half-way deal with not being able to eat any kind of dairy (which is in everything, it feels like) because she’s allergic. I can half-way deal with the fact that she’s going to need surgery in the next few months. And I’m sure there are other moms out there going through worse who only see their child as God’s greatest miracle.
But I am not other moms, and I hate being a parent today, and my faith is utterly shaken and hanging by a thread. The only other time in my life that feels comparable is when my brother committed suicide. Seriously, parenting should not feel comparable to dealing with the sudden death of a loved one.
But today, and on many other occasions, it has felt that way. Lost. Irritable. Unable to cope. And angry at God for not fixing something he should have fixed already.
Why is sleep that important to me? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I feel like a better person wouldn’t feel this way.
But I am not that better person, and this whole not getting sleep thing feels like torture.
Just like after my brother died, people keep saying, “It will get better,” and I have a hard time believing them.
Just like with grief, it really does get better in small moments. But they are stuck in between so many moments like this.
Maybe this is the big PD: postpartum depression. But I feel like pills and a counselor are the expensive alternative to what would really be my saving grace: sleep.
Because like I said, I really can deal with the other stuff. I’ve made my peace with all the other parenting woes. Sleep-deprivation must just be my achilles heel.