I count little white pills. That’s how I know when I’m not doing so great; when I count pills. Six left. Now five left. Five little tiny pills left. I make a mental note to call in my refill on Friday.

I didn’t think it would be like this two years later. PPD is what they said, in July two years ago. Post Partum Depression. Even though I had no baby to show for it. Just a broken heart and a half filled drawer of silly onesies. I thought as time went by, it would go away. PPD does. Or so I’ve been told.

Here I sit though, two years and two months later, counting little pills. I count them, when I’m having a shitty time. I count them so I know when to get more. I count them, because the new ones will be a bit stronger. I count them, because they are my security blanket.

I see women all pregnant right now and I have to not pay attention. I walked into kids stores this past weekend with Liz and tried not to cringe as I looked over all the baby stuff. Right now, I should know what my baby was going to be. I should be buying little onesies and socks. I should be telling Harrison about his baby brother or sister and watching him laugh at me, like a loony, because what does a nearly one year old child understand about new babies anyway? I should be preparing for my Christmas baby, arguring with my husband over names. But I’m not.

It’s not as bad this time. A five week misscarriage is not as bad as a fourteen week one. But what’s bad? How do you characterize bad? In some ways, I’ve done better. In others I feel worse. Two babies lost forever is harder than one baby lost forever. I dream about them, but even in my dreams, I never get to touch them.

It’s not all sad, my life. I have weeks that are great. I adore my children. They make me smile, even on my worst days. I get out of bed every day. I take care of my family. My heart has healed in a lot of ways. My mind and emotions have healed in a lot of ways. But some weeks are rough. This one happens to be one. A week where getting out of bed is a chore. A week where making dinner seems as challenging as running a marathon. A week where I just want to hide. Part of it right now, is vacation-itis. I have that big time right now. The week after a great vacation is always sad and depressing. Reality sits in.I know this, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

I watch my husband get up and leave each morning. He comes home late and then we go to bed. I haven’t spent any real time with him in over two weeks. I roll over and look at him each morning and I miss him before he even gets up to shower. It won’t always be like this, but it is right now. Yesterday I cried as he showered. I cried on the way home from taking the girls to school on Monday and Tuesday. I cried on Sunday, after Liz borded her plane.

Today is a better day, I know this, because I haven’t cried. Tomorrow maybe I won’t even count little white pills.

I’m sure I shouldn’t post this. I needed to write though. I need you all to know why I’m not really present this week, even though I’m technically here. I’d not open comments, but I honestly don’t know how to turn them off. Plus, I just told Stacey yesterday, that she shouldn’t ever close comments again, so I’d be a meany to do it myself. Just know, I really am okay. I really will be okay in a few days. I’m just having a week.