I'm writing this knowing that people are probably going to throw stones at me. I'm ready for that. Still, I want readers to hear my confession and try to understand. I simply fly into a rage whenever my own child cries. Let me give you the full story.
I've been married for a few years now. We have a good life and a deep connection. We met by chance when I went into a store to buy a coffee maker. I'm obsessed with coffee; I can't imagine a single day without it. I'd been saving up for months so I could make a decent brew at home. When I went to the shop, I didn't have a clue what I was looking for. My future husband, Mark, was working there as a sales associate and offered to help. I liked him instantly—he was young and friendly—and we just started talking. He helped me pick out a great machine and suggested we test it out right there. I happily agreed, and that's where our relationship began.
We realized almost immediately that we wanted to be together. For a while, we just lived together in a rented apartment. Mark wanted to get a mortgage and buy a place, but we couldn't make it work right away. We decided to wait. That went on for two years. During that time, Mark got a promotion that made buying a house possible, and he proposed. I said yes, of course. We decided against a big wedding. We agreed to just go to the courthouse, have a nice dinner at a bistro, and save the rest of the money for our future children.
By the way, Mark really wanted kids, which you don't always see. I mean, plenty of couples want them, but Mark talked about it night and day.
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He didn't care at all if we had a boy or a girl. When I found out I was pregnant, he was over the moon. I had a very difficult pregnancy, though; I dealt with morning sickness for almost the entire nine months. I barely slept and could hardly eat. Mark never left my side and helped me with everything. When I went into labor, he was at work, but he rushed home the second I called him.
The delivery was extremely complicated, and it took me a long time to recover afterward. As soon as I pulled myself together, my struggle to breastfeed began. See, I've always been convinced that only a mother's milk can keep a baby healthy and happy. Even though I'm a new mom, I don't trust all those fancy formulas and powders. That agony lasted for two months. I tried everything to boost my supply. I drank gallons of that lactation tea my friends recommended, but nothing worked. Our son screamed day and night and barely slept. I couldn't understand what was wrong. Then, I pumped what little milk I had left and saw it was practically transparent. It was only then I realized my poor baby was simply starving.
I called the pediatrician, and she advised me to switch to formula. As soon as I started giving him bottles, he calmed down. He was happy and finally sleeping well. Why hadn't I started supplementing sooner? My poor little boy was hungry while I was just trying to satisfy my own ego. I remember breastfeeding as a living hell. My nipples were cracked and bleeding, and the poor baby would latch harder and harder, but there was nothing there. Those two months felt like an eternity. Toward the end, I felt such a physical revulsion toward nursing. I don't know what was happening to me; I would just cry and want to stop. My son must have sensed my mood, which is why he cried so much. And I, in turn, couldn't stand his crying. I would start screaming at him and sobbing. But he wouldn't calm down; he'd just scream louder. I couldn't break the cycle.
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Then came the crushing guilt because I wasn't feeding him myself. I felt like a failure, like I was a bad mother who couldn't even provide for her own son. On top of that, I kept reading all these articles about the benefits of breastfeeding. Every time you open the internet, it's all about how "natural is best" and how formula-fed babies get sick more often. I even read one article that said a "real mother" has to breastfeed.
My baby is almost three months old now, and he's been on formula for six weeks. I love my little boy so much; I can't imagine life without him. Sometimes at night, I stand over his crib and just watch him, my heart skipping a beat. To me, he's the most beautiful, sweet baby in the world. But I absolutely cannot stand it when he cries. The second he starts—for any reason—I start losing my mind. I don't know what comes over me, but when I hear that piercing scream, an instinct triggers in me where I just want to... I want to choke him. I'm scared of myself in those moments.
Things with Mark are still great; I couldn't ask for a better husband. Our private life is wonderful, too—something many newlyweds would envy. We have a great home, our own place, a happy marriage. It seems like I should just be enjoying life, but something is wrong. I know my baby isn't to blame; he's tiny and he's not doing it on purpose. But I can't control myself. I don't know what to do with this aggression. I've caught myself swatting his bottom or jerking his leg too hard. It scares him, and he cries even louder. Then I start to loathe myself, to curse myself. I'm terrified that I might actually hurt my own child. What should I do?
I've started taking over-the-counter sedatives, hoping they might help take the edge off my anger. Please, can anyone tell me how to find a way out of this?
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