I am beginning to see why there appears to be a connection between dysfunction and creativity. I was thinking this morning about Edgar Allen Poe and Amy Winehouse. Two very different people who each shared their brilliance in their own time, but were overcome by addiction.
I had thought I would write about my nights staying up with my son when he was an infant, but no one would want to read it. A perceptive midwife tuned in to my depression while I was still pregnant with my son, and by the time he was born, my emotions were held in check with the help of what I affectionately called my “little blue happy pills.” I experienced the “baby blues” with my son–for real this time, as opposed to what I mistakenly called the baby blues after my daughter was born. I cried in the shower maybe four times the first week after my son was born, and it was over.
I decided I would never again share my bedroom with one of my children, so my son was assigned his own room his very first night home. He was sleeping through the night (medical definition-six hours) within the first week and was sleeping over eight hours (my definition of sleeping through the night) within a month or two. I actually enjoyed the one or two feedings I had with him each night. Did I mention how much I LOVED those little blue pills? I looked forward to the quiet. I watched season one of Dexter on my computer. I wore headphones. I had a snack. Did I mention how those little blue happy pills caused me to gain weight? That’s it. No raw emotion. No insanity. Contentment is very boring. Unless you’re the one who is content.
Perhaps sometime I should write about the juxtaposition posed by a mother feeding an infant in the peaceful quiet of the night, while enjoying a show whose protagonist is a prolific serial killer.