Did it matter, then, she asked herself, walking toward Bond Street. Did it matter that she must inevitably cease, completely. All this must go on without her. Did she resent it? Or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? –The Hours
I have these thoughts of dying a lot, I don’t plan how it will happen, I just think about it. Not the actual death, just not being here. Not having to struggle day after day. It makes me feel better some of the time. I feel peaceful. I’m sure that’s bad, somehow.
My husband is irritated at me. PPD equals no sex drive. Not that I really had one before. Our marriage has always been difficult. He still deals with PTSD. It’s not even close to as bad as it was, he saw a therapist for a while, and has been much better the past few years. But, back to my nonexistent sex drive. That’s basically it. I don’t have one, he has a ‘normal’ one, he gets irritated, and I don’t know what to do.
I hate not knowing. I don’t know what I want to do with my life, I’ve flip-flopped a lot the past few years. Truthfully, I just have no motivation to do anything. I haven’t for a while. I keep trying to remember what I was like before I got pregnant and I can’t.
I know I repeat this ad nauseam, but I just want to be better. Feel better, live better, be better. I’m glad babies don’t remember being babies. I don’t want R to remember me like this.