Untethered . . .

. . . is how I feel; I'm starting to come undone. There are many disconnected thoughts running through my brain and underlying my every emotion. Last week I had a nasty paper cut under my fingernail--glaaaaahhh--and it was, while not the most excruciating pain I've ever experienced, irritating and constant. And every so often I'd find myself extra crabby, and realize that little cut was exacerbating every negative emotion. So here are my paper cuts:

For one: last night, C and I were out at a wine tasting/fund raiser for the science museum. Wine tasting = not super fun for pregnant ladies, but we did get to hang out on the roof overlooking the city. Pretty awesome. Anyway, I had to get in a giganticly long line for a simple can of soda and, of course, the couple ahead of us asked the standard, "Is this your first?" Blah blah blah, this line of benign questioning led to them telling me that, on number three, we're now "outnumbered."

Excuse me while I vomit on your shoe, won't you?

Of course, I nodded and said, "Ha. Ha." Because, of course, three always means three LIVING, right? I guess out there in the normal reality, it does. But in here? It could mean anything. But it certainly doesn't mean outnumbered. If only.

For another: I absolutely am turning into some version of a crazy cat lady. Well, minus the zillion cats. I utter wildly inappropriate responses to people, have no idea how to interact with a group of non-strangers. This weekend I had the distinct pleasure of seeing some VERY old friends-as in, middle-through-high school friends. People I've not seen in over 15 years. It was really refreshing to remember those old times. But there also was a reunion involved on Saturday night--a party for everyone who graduated from our school during the 1990's. Tempting, but really I couldn't go. Even if I could have gone, I couldn't do it. I couldn't face telling my story over and over, being clearly pregnant for the third time and only one living kid to show for it. Trying to keep my shit together and repeating my lame attempts at making others feel OK with asking time and time again. I was exhausted just thinking about it.

And that makes me sad. I got to see a bunch of my old classmates earlier in the day, and really would have loved to spend time with them that night. But I couldn't. Who knows what would have come out of my mouth?

And this: I am fat. I know, I know--I'm pregnant, it's the least of my worries, get over it, blah blah blah. But it still hurts. It's hard getting up off the couch. It hurts to run. The mere thought of working out is exhausting. Have I mentioned it's about as hot as the solar surface around here? I started out nearly 15 pounds behind the fatty 8 ball, and, well, plain and simple: it sucks.

This certainly is not at the top of the "Shitty Things About My Baby Dying" list, but it's sure on there. This was supposed to be my summer: I was supposed to be thin again, supposed to get fast again, supposed to be nursing and trying to find time to eat and back into my old wardrobe. Now I have flabby arms and huge legs and strapless-dress-upper-chest fat pockets. Gorgeous. It's stupid, I know, but it's still depressing. Call me vain--I don't care. I'm being honest.

So, there's more shit, but these are the things that pick at my brain the most. I'm overwhelmed. I feel, not MISunderstood, but, well, UN-understood. The levels of crazy are none that I've ever lived through. I just feel so broken and disassembled. I don't know how to fix these pieces to put it back together.