Okay, okay, I’m the terrible one (carve that into my tombstone with Catherine Trammell’s ice pick), because I took a quote from a highly personal Gwyneth Paltrow interview and twisted it around before shoving it back into her mouth. But it was so easy. The English language was created just so Fishsticks could utter the words “I’m terrible” and the ingredients were all there so I just had to. So what Fishy really told Good Housekeeping (via People) is that soon after her son Moses swam out of the egg she laid, she suffered a case of the postpartum blues and felt like a terrible person because of it.
Specifically, Fishy said she felt like a zombie. And not like one of those trashy American zombies from Dawn of the Dead. No, Fishy felt more like a refined BRITISH zombie who cares about their diet. Instead of mumbling out rude moans like “OOOOAAARRGGHH!!“, they charmingly coo out something like, “CHEERIOOOOOAAARRGGHH!!” And they politely ask you if you’re preservative-free before they sprinkle flax seeds on your brains and have one their servants neatly slice it into pieces so it goes down easy. Anyway, this is how Fishy explains it:
“I felt like a zombie. I couldn’t access my heart. I couldn’t access my emotions. I couldn’t connect. It was terrible, it was the exact opposite of what had happened when Apple was born. With her, I was on cloud nine. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t the same. I just thought it meant I was a terrible mother and a terrible person.
About four months into it, Chris came to me and said, ‘Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.’ I kept saying, ‘No, no, I’m fine.’ But Chris identified it, and that sort of burst the bubble. I thought postpartum depression meant you were sobbing every single day and incapable of looking after a child. But there are different shades of it and depths of it, which is why I think it’s so important for women to talk about it. It was a trying time. I felt like a failure.”
The baby sads is a real thing and no laughing matter, but I sort of know how Fishy felt. Whenever I cradle a Paltrow article with my eyes and stare deep into it, I immediately need to put it back in its crib and run to the garage to smoke a cigarette in the family car. Well, since I don’t have a garage, I have to go into the bathroom, stuff a towel in the door crack and crawl into the tub for a nerve-numbing smoke.
And here’s something Paltrow-related that definitely won’t make you depressed:
Did I say “won’t” make you depressed, I meant “WILL.” So yeah, I’ll meet you in the tub. Bring your own fucking light.