Breastfeeding Is The Most Toxic Relationship I’ve Ever Been In

I love it. I resent it. I’m going to miss it. Unfortunately.

We don’t talk about how stopping breastfeeding is just as hard as starting.

My experience with both boys was vastly different, the first with Imad being relatively easy, the difficulties mostly coming from the novelty of it all, and briefly having to use a nipple shield. Imad also used to take a bottle with either some formula or my pumped milk, as well as a pacifier. So, the pressure wasn’t all on my sore, sad nipples. By 11 months he lost interest and I sort of naturally weaned him off, following his lead.

Adam came into the picture and said, “hold my bottle because I am one boob-obsessed boy” and here we are. 13 months of exclusive breastfeeding later. No bottle, no pumping, no pacifier, nothing but me. I still can’t believe it.

I’m fucking PROUD of myself don’t get me wrong, but I’m also fucking tired.

When he was around 5 months, we found out he had CMPA (cow milk protein allergy) so that brought on another level of complication to my breastfeeding journey: cutting dairy out of my diet entirely. Followed by 2 bouts of mastitis, rounds of antibiotics, multiple ultrasound trips, sticking ice packs into my bra, wrapping cabbage around my boobs, massaging them like my life depended on it, and lots and lots of crying.

Every day I thought about stopping. Every day I convinced myself to make it to tomorrow instead. Because maybe tomorrow would be easier.

And we did make it to that day.

We got to the part of breastfeeding that felt more like sunshine and rainbows than tears and blood. His little body curling into mine as he latched on. His hand on my chest. His breath slowing as he drifted off to sleep. The invincible feeling I got from being the only person who could bring him this sort of comfort and nourishment.

I loved that part. I still love that part.

But the other night, oh my God, the other night.

We recently came back from Arizona and Adam had been struggling through the jetlag too. We were on maybe night 6 of him waking up from 11 pm to 3 am and I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I laid there and felt like a ragdoll he was having his way with. He contorted his little body like an acrobat, WHILE STILL ATTACHED TO ME, twisting my nipple in the process. He pinched me, pulled at the loose skin on my boob, stuck his finger in my bellybutton. Unlatching just long enough to give me hope before starting all over again.

At one point I genuinely thought, wow, this is actually a very creative form of torture.

And suddenly breastfeeding didn’t feel magical anymore. It felt parasitic.

I felt used and abused. And I know how horrible that sounds because he’s just a baby. He’s seeking comfort. He doesn’t know any better.

But mothers are allowed to reach their limit too.

How did I get to this point? How much more could I handle? Why couldn’t I just stop? Will he even let me stop? He’s going to go insane. But I have to. It’s enough.

That’s the part nobody talks about either. Stopping breastfeeding isn’t just emotional because your baby is growing up or whatever poetic thing people like to say. Once you start the weaning process, your body chemically freaks out too. The hormones that helped you bond and regulate yourself for over a year suddenly start dropping. Oxytocin, prolactin, all of it. Some women get anxiety, rage, insomnia, mood swings, random crying spells. Basically a tiny hormonal identity crisis as a fun little farewell gift from nature.

Like congratulations on making it this far. Here’s your mental breakdown.

No wonder I keep saying I’m done and then giving in one more night. One more feed. One more latch.

I want my body back. But it also feels like I’m about to amputate a part of myself.

This is also my second time around and I know now how fast these phases disappear once they’re over. I know one day he’ll stop reaching for me like this entirely. So even while I’m laying there at 2 AM being treated like a human stress ball, some part of my brain is going, “one day you’re going to miss this.”

I know, I sound demented. Please, tell me I’m not the only one.

That’s the contradiction of motherhood, I guess. We push and pull. Get pushed and pulled. Two completely opposite things existing at the exact same time.

I HATE IT BUT I LOVE IT BUT I NEED TO STOP BUT I STILL KEEP GOING.

Ugh.

Turns out women can survive almost anything, which is beautiful, but also slightly psychotic when you really think about it.

We’re not martyrs. We don’t want pity. Most of the time we just need space to admit that the things we love most can also completely consume us.

Anyway.

Wish me luck.