Opening Up The Bottle

Right, so here I am.

I knew something wasn't right back in January, when my son was born. I knew it wasn't normal to constantly feel like this. This. . .despair, hopelessness, or fright. I knew it wasn't normal to have painful and scary flashbacks to something that should be joyous, exciting and amazing.

I would classify my sons birth as 'terrifying, crippling trauma.'

Those are some pretty powerful words there. But there they are.

This past week my Therapist diagnosed me with PTSD from birthrape.

I denied it. I knew I had PTSD but I never thought I had experienced birthrape.  I had read about it often, my heart breaking for those that experienced it. I read about a woman who had her waters broken against her will by a cranky OB, I read about a woman sewn up from a tear without lydocane out of vengeance and spite from the OB. I never thought it could happen to me. Me, the informed consent junky. Me, the person who read eight books about pregnancy and birth and I was not going to be steamrolled into something I didn't want. And I have regret about that. I regret the choices I made.

I keep blaming myself for these choices. I keep telling myself and others 'I should of known better.' I have been refusing to let myself cope because, quite frankly, didn't I get what I deserved?

No.

Wow, just those two little letters have made me cry. But I didn't. I didn't deserve the things they did to me. No woman does. No PERSON does.

And that is what this blog is going to be about. Opening up the bottle I shoved my emotions and fears into and letting them out.