I irrationally believe there to be a man secretly living in the upstairs part of our home. I imagine him living in the attic, coming out while we are not home, rummaging through our belongings and maybe even using my toothbrush. As I walk up the stairs, I am overcome with a dreadful feeling that I will surprise him up there, find him scurrying for his hiding space. We will lock eyes, and I will feel simultaneously vindicated and terrified to find him there. Why are you here? I will ask him. How did you get in? Why do you keep running the dishwasher when it is full of already clean dishes?
I have searched every inch of the upstairs. I have looked in the attic and seen no evidence that a man is residing there. I keep the shower curtain open all the time, so I can see that there's no one there behind it. My no-nonsense dog would never let a man live upstairs undetected. But still every time I venture up, I imagine him. He wears a plaid shirt, and jeans. He looks like the man from the Brawny paper towel wrapper, but shorter and broader in stature. He reads our books and plays Matt's board games. He warily goes back into hiding each time he thinks we may be approaching. Sometimes I imagine him moving with the constraints of a corporeal body; other times he moves like a ghost, unhindered by physics, simply gliding room to room.
I do not imagine him to be malevolent. I'm not afraid of him, per say; I am afraid of finding him. I am afraid that to see him would mean I would have to confront the things I do not know, the things I have no control over. The attic man is the embodiment of the unknown for me, a specter of uncertainty.
As a new mom, I have lots of anxiety. I worry about today, tomorrow, and yesterday. I worry about money. I worry about my relationships. I worry about being a good wife and partner to my husband. I worry about being a good mom and role model for my daughter. I worry about her safety and her health. I worry about Matt's safety and health. I worry about being late to work, about what we will have for dinner, about the stacks of clean laundry that never get put away. Instead of thinking about these things individually, I have combined them into one thing to worry about: the attic man.
I have talked with several people about my attic man. To say these things out loud, or even to write them now, does not diminish his presence in my life. I do not feel any more or less crazy whether I keep him to myself or let others know about him. For me, he is there and I am not sure how long he will stay. I accept him and fear him in equal measure.
As a former/recovering pregnant lady, I have struggled with how unprepared I felt for so many aspects of parenting and how I can support other pregnant/recovering pregnant ladies. Postpartum anxiety has been one of those areas for me. I knew, of course, about postpartum depression. But I had not been warned of or ever even heard about postpartum anxiety. I don't know that it's even an official thing, so to speak. But the more I have read and discussed it online, I have found many, many mothers who have experienced some level of this uncontrolled anxiety in the weeks and months after a new baby is born. Other mothers whose minds created some weird stuff.
How do you explain this to a pregnant lady? That possibly your hormones will be so insane, your sleep schedule so whack, that you could have anxiety about a secret man living in your home? That you could create a complex and nuanced life for this attic man? That you can imagine in great detail what he does all day while you are out working and living your life?
New mom anxiety can be very real and very weird. Maybe it's enough to say that.
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