Last night I was woken from a bad dream by my precious little newborn (6wks now). After feeding her I still had that icky feeling that often lingers after even the most abstract bad dreams. So I decided to read a few pages from my Anne of Green Gables series to lighten my mind before I fell back asleep. The books are always light, always positive. I'm on the 5th novel of the rediculously light series (Anne's House of Dreams).
But last night- when I most needed it, what's my luck? I literally started reading about Anne delivering her first child, a pale, precious little girl. Her ecstacy is quickly squelched when the baby dies. The author then describes her anguish and sorrow - a first for the serially happy Anne. She can not feel any joy in life anymore.
Wow. So instead of being upset by the weird hormone dream, I got to be upset by stirred up memories of my own real nightmares!
I actually really appreciate the author's description of her experience. It was authentic, raw. In some, possibly perverse way, it comforts me to know that women of past generations shared my trials. My pain is not new, uncommon or even unique. Throughout time, it's just that bad. No way around it.
I used to identify with Anne through her imagination and abhorrance of a plain name. Now we are 'kindred spirits' in motherhood.