Not as progressed as I thought

I have realized through accidents and quiet nights, I have not progressed in dealing with Hayden's birth as I once thought. Though the total emotional breakdowns have lessened and spaced out, they still occur, and sometimes with an unrelenting force. First they seemed to happen just at night, when all was quiet and dark, when there was nothing to focus on except the aimless thoughts floating through my mind. Then the 'what-ifs' start. "what if I had just said no to the Pit?" "What if Andrew had been in the room when I requested to stay mobile?" one after the other after the other. They domino on me until I'm physically, mentally and emotionally overwhelmed and breakdown into tears. Sometimes silently, sometimes voiced, but they all hold the same pain. The same pain of what happened, what didn't happen, and what could have happened. The memories of nurses pushing my knees apart and shoving a hand inside me, never asking permission. Memories of the doctor shoving a hook into my waterbag and exposing my son to air, germs and infection, and screwing something into my son's head, elbow deep inside me, and leaving afterwards without a word, smile or anything.

I thought I was making progress. I told my story start to finish about 4 times, making it all the way through without crying the last 2 times. But one day, without warning, (while looking for a new picture to put on my desktop, I stumbled upon the picture of the doctor vacuuming Hayden from my body, expediting a process that should have taken its own time. This image, this brutal loss of control sent me spiraling into tears on one of the nicest, sunniest days of my life. How could one image do that to me so suddenly while I was sitting there, elated from chatting with my adorable son only moments before? What could this be.

Later, driving, When I thought about the doctor breaking my water and remembering that excruciating pain, I instinctively slammed my legs together, as an attempt to protect myself from that pain again.

Why was the birth of my son, my first child, the most joyous day of my life, ruined and turned into something I'd rather never think about again. Why am I the mother that would be perfectly happy to not remember a thing about my son's birth day? I didn't ask for that. I didn't deserve that.

I need help. I know it. But why do I have this dark feeling that no matter what professional I talk to, the likelihood of them believing me, understanding my pain, is minimal? They haven't read the stories I've read, both good and bad, of how birth can be. Of how birth SHOULD be. It shouldn't be something we dread and wish to forget. It should be celebrated, revered and supported. My body is amazing. My body was not broken. My body knew what to do. I was told I was broken, that I couldn't do it on my own and that I needed help. No one should ever be told "You can't" when it's physiologically a fact that WE CAN!

Please tell me if you or anyone you know feels this way or has experienced something like this. Bonus if you live in/close to Lubbock. I know I'm not alone. And you aren't either.