I WIsh Someone Could Help Me

I thought I understood when my son was 23 months old that what I did with him was a sacrifice that was worth enduring.  I thought I remembered what it was like being depressed and dabilitatingly anxious.  Everything else... the nausea, the pains, the headaches only magnify the hell that I live in every day in my mind.  I thought, "I did it once, and I made it through it, so I can do it, again."

Now, I think I was crazy.  I spent significant time in the Asphodel Fields AND I FORGOT.  HOW COULD I FORGET??  I swore I would never do it, again.  And I failed myself.  How could I even consider doing this to myself, again?

I am filled with regret.  I am filled with sorrow.  I am filled with pain.  I am almost laughing while I cry, because at the same time as regret and sorrow and pain, I know that it is impossible through the words at my disposal to type anything that will amount to the reality of what I am experiencing, so it almost seems a waste to even sit here. 

          Shadows steal my breath. 
          Pain stomps down onto me, when I think of standing.  
          Doubt takes away the faint light of laughter that comes close enough to touch.  
          DJ, my sunshine, too is hidden by clouds and cannot shine on me. 
         
          Sleep is a small blessing. 

I won't lie.  I have enough perspective to know that this may be the worst of it.  There are better times.  And maybe after I get through this first trimester, this difficulty will lessen, maybe be gone.  But what does it matter when one day is like eternity, and there are 35 of them left, at best, too many to count, at worst.