Reality, and the reality of my head
I have nothing appropriate to say, all things considered. This should be where I start regaling you all with stories of Olivia's wonderfulness and my utter bliss and contentment, peppered lightly with a few cute anecdotes about the way I mistakenly put the ice cream in the microwave after a night of sleeplessness or the charming way she pooped on me. Perhaps the adorable way she pretends my nipples are a dog toy and she a spunky pomeranian. But. But.
I am not getting better at this. I do not feel stronger, more competent, more worthy, now that she has been with me for a month. I haven't made it through a day without crying and a generalized grief, without feeling overwhelmed and incapable of giving her what she needs. Don't get me wrong: I am amazed by her every breath, every gaze, every sigh; she is an extraordinary creature, and I love her overpoweringly. And loving her so much hurts like a knife. I wish I could explain it better than that.
I know that what I'm feeling is irrational. Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe my thyroid is out of whack again, my hormones in disarray, but that doesn't really help. I can't talk myself out of feeling this way.