I wish I told her this story:
Once, when the whole stay-at-home-depressed-new-mom thing was washing (which wrongly implies that I had regular showers) over me, I wept, WEPT with joy when a piece of mail had my name.
I hadn’t left the house in DAYS, but someone in the universe remembered I existed.
Even if it was just Victoria’s Secret.
And then I cried again.
I didn't tell her that story.
I didn't tell her it would get better.
I didn't tell her in a few months sleep would return and she would feel human.
I didn't tell her it would get better, because that was just something I read somewhere.
I didn't want to lie to her. But I didn't want to tell her the truth, either.
To Be Continued...