In 2013, it was downstairs in our newly remodeled basement. In 2015, it was in our family room overlooking the backyard. But in both years, in both rooms, the same cozy, sand-colored couch was there to meet me as I poured out my sadness in sobs and tears. Even though they have dried now, I can still picture the round, damp tear-stains left behind when I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.
The tears. The tears that came every day, multiple times a day, and just wouldn’t stop. Tears of frustration, sadness, fatigue, fear. I remember sobbing silently in my baby girl’s room as I was trying to get her to fall asleep, believing in my head that this would be hard forever. I remember going out one afternoon as a family and crying about something that had happened earlier in the day but not being able to stop the tears. I remember coming down after a long day and collapsing on that same familiar couch to pour out my soul in watery words. And sometimes I would cry with joy as I put my big boy down for his nap, thinking about how much I loved him. But always, everywhere - tears.
I tend to be an emotional person. I cry in movies, over tough decisions, at good-byes. But this was different. These tears were not of my choosing. I couldn’t control them, but instead they were controlling me. It almost felt as if my mood didn’t dictate my tears but rather my tears dictated my mood. Even in the happy times I couldn’t always be happy because the tears would come and ruin those feelings. Until one day I was done. Finally, the words I knew I should have said two years earlier, during the first rough months of my big boy’s life, but was never brave enough, came to the surface - “I need help.” And for the first time since baby girl was born, there was hope that our couch could hold a joyful soul once again.
To be continued...
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