The Diary of a Book Reviewer - Part 6

The last entry here was in June 2020. A lot has happened since then. I got married, had a baby, published three books, and my fourth is on the way. I co-authored five anthologies and have been doing much better professionally. From the outside, it might look like life has been moving in the right direction. And in many ways, it has. But there is another side of my life that rarely makes it into the picture.

I have been dealing with postpartum depression, loneliness, and the overwhelming feeling of having no one to talk to. Motherhood has changed everything. Some things have changed for the better, while others have changed for the worse. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the person I used to be. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and barely recognise myself anymore.

Recently, I went through my old pictures, and it sent me into another spiral of emotions. I saw the girl I used to be. The girl with long, painted nails, a watch on her wrist, countless bracelets, statement earrings, and her hair left open. The girl who was skinny, who dressed up, who took care of herself and probably never imagined that one day even the smallest acts of self-care would feel so exhausting.

And then there is the person I am today. Someone who struggles to fit into her old clothes. Someone who barely has the time or patience to put on makeup or do her hair. Someone for whom even brushing her teeth can feel like a monumental task some days.

I know bodies change. I know motherhood changes you. I know there is more to a woman than her appearance or the size of her clothes. But knowing all of that does not make it any easier to look at old pictures and grieve the person you feel you have lost. It does not make it easier to miss yourself while trying to adjust to a life that no longer feels like your own.

And then there is the loneliness.

Living with an emotionally unavailable husband has forced me to confront some uncomfortable realities about my life, my marriage, and the future I once imagined for myself. There is a particular kind of loneliness in sharing your life with someone and still feeling as though you have no one to turn to when you are falling apart. It is exhausting to keep asking for love, affection, care, and emotional support, only to feel that you are asking for too much.

I wish the father of my child had been as involved, loving, and caring towards me as I needed him to be, especially during the times when I felt like I could barely breathe under the weight of everything I was going through. I wish I did not have to explain why I needed support. I wish I did not have to ask repeatedly for the bare minimum of emotional presence. I wish someone would look at me and recognise that I am struggling, without waiting for me to reach my breaking point before taking me seriously.

But that is not the reality I am living in. This is my reality, day after day, and I am tired.

I am tired of wondering where my life is going. I am tired of trying to explain my pain. I am tired of asking for love and care, of hoping that things will change, and of feeling disappointed when they do not. Eventually, I stopped begging. Not because I stopped wanting those things, but because I could no longer bear the feeling of having to plead for something that should come from a place of love.

The truth is, I still want it. All of it. I want to feel loved. I want to feel cared for. I want someone to ask me how I am doing and genuinely care about the answer. I want to be held when I am falling apart, to have someone notice when I am not okay, and to feel that I do not have to carry every burden alone.

I want to feel like a person again, not just a mother, a wife, an author, or someone who is expected to keep functioning regardless of how much she is hurting inside.

There have been moments when the darkness in my mind has felt unbearable, moments when I have wanted to give up on everything. And sometimes, the only thing that has kept me going is knowing that my little boy depends on me, wants me, and needs me. 

I love him more than words can explain, but I also wish that being a mother did not mean I had to keep pushing through my own pain in silence. I wish I could be cared for, too. I wish someone would remind me that I matter, even when I am not doing anything for anyone else.

Because I am not just sleep-deprived. I am love-deprived, too.

And perhaps that is the hardest part to admit. You can be professionally successful, accomplish things you once dreamed of, publish books, build a career, and still feel deeply unhappy in your personal life. 

You can have milestones worth celebrating and still cry over the smallest things when no one is watching. You can love your child with every part of your being and still miss your old self. You can be grateful for what you have and still grieve what you are not receiving.

Both things can be true.

I do not have a neat conclusion to this story. I do not have an inspirational lesson to offer or a list of things that magically made everything better. I am still figuring things out. I am still trying to understand who I am now, what I need, and how to make room for myself in a life that seems to demand so much from me.

For now, I just wanted to write again. To put these feelings somewhere outside my head. To acknowledge that the past few years have brought achievements I am proud of, but also a kind of exhaustion and loneliness that I do not know how to explain to people who have never experienced it.

Maybe the girl in those old pictures is still somewhere inside me. Maybe she is simply tired. Maybe she needs time, tenderness, and a little help finding her way back.

I just wish she did not have to do it all alone.