Why do they call it the baby blues when the world is full of nothing but grey? When the colour blue makes me think of calm. Of warm oceans and clear skies and lightness of heart?

Why do they call it the baby blues when the world is not calm or warm or light? When my sun doesn’t shine and the reality of just getting up and getting out of bed and *gasp* talking to people is the hardest thing in the world. Why do they give it such an easy sounding name?

Baby blues.

Cute. Happy. Peaceful. Calm. Inviting.

Where is the blue when the anger rises inside of me like a volcano rushing forth to destroy all thoughts of a sane nature? Where is the blue when the flashbacks engulf me and the darkness descends over my soul? Where is the blue when the searing white hot pain of reality hits home and I remember… I remember.

Why, oh WHY do they call it the baby blues? Like the baby has any say in this at all. As he lies in his cot with dream in his eyes and sleep covering his tiny body like a blanket. As he learns to smile, to laugh, to speak and to walk. Like he has any say at all in the mess that surrounded him, any colour but blue. Any colour.

And we live our lives in a half empty jar. We never quite manage to finish anything to an acceptable standard and we never quite manage to get to the end. We eat dinner that sticks in our mouths and clings to our throats. We move through rooms that are half done and lives that are half lived. And we go on.