Life Interrupted by Kristen Kehoe Page A

things around me.  If there was something in my way, I fought it, battled, waged a war until I got through.  I stupidly assumed that I would do that with being a teen mom, too.
                  The reality was that I couldn’t deal with how hard it was.  Plain and simple.  Being a mom was fucking hard and it took too much goddamned effort.  I wanted my life back, the life that was me before Gracie, me before Marcus, me before that night with Tripp that had served as a catalyst to everything I was going through.  I wanted me back, the one who had hopes and dreams and a future ahead of her, not the one who was sitting in the hospital with a newborn next to her and a nurse frowning because I chose the bottle over the breast.
                  I believe my response was a snarled “I gave her my life, I don’t think she needs my nipples, too.”  That was the last conversation we had about formula versus breast milk. 
    People came and went in the hospital, fawning over the baby, even over me, congratulating me, praising me, giving me advice and presents.  I did my best to respond, to break through the fog that seemed to settle over me like a wet blanket and drag me down, but my success rate wasn’t great, and eventually, I stopped trying.  When we got home, it got worse.  I didn’t hold my daughter unless there was someone in there who handed her to me.  When she cried, I let her, waiting for Stacy or my mom to come and get her while I would pretend to be asleep until she stopped.
                  Her first month of life, I listened while my mom rocked her and walked her at night when she was fussy, fed her when she was hungry, cooed at her when she was awake, but I never left my bed.  Even in the morning when my mom would come into my room and tell me she was going to work, I’d ask her to call G because I didn’t feel good. 
                  I remember hearing Stacy, G, and my mom all argue about it when I got up to go to the bathroom one night and G told her I wasn’t just tired, that I was depressed and I wasn’t sliding out of it.  My mother said she thought it was the normal baby blues, that she would wait, give me more time to adjust.  When I went in for my check up, the doctor asked me some very specific questions and then pulled my mother aside when we were leaving.  I have no idea what he said to her, but after that day she started watching me more closely, asking me more things about how I was feeling, what I was thinking.
                  They tried everything to get me out of bed each day, to get me interested in anything, and I remember thinking why can’t you just leave me alone? As time progressed, I wouldn’t see anyone; not Katie, not Tripp, even Ms. Flynn came by but I always had a reason I wasn’t ready to see them—I was still fat (forget that I’d dropped the baby weight and more since I wasn’t eating), I was still tired, I was still recovering from labor.  Ultimately, it was Stacy who saved me.
                  “Rachel Maria Reynolds, you are going to get your ass out of this bed and put on those jeans and that shirt.  If you don’t,” she said when I went to roll over, “I’m going to come back and I’m going to make sure you get up.  I brought Tripp with me, so don’t think I’m lying.”
                  I stayed where I was and true to her word, ten minutes later Tripp was hauling me from bed despite my protests, walking me to the shower where he deposited me and turned the water on high.  And cold.
                  I struggled, flopping around, pushing, shoving, screaming, but he held me there, wiping at my face as the water streamed down it, talking to me the entire time, bringing me back just with the sound of his voice.  When I broke down and started crying, Stacy was there, curling in the shower with me, both of us dressed, both of us soaked as the cold water continued