for what it's worth

My husband bought me an E.E. Cummings book, Tulips&Chimneys. I think without ever meaning to, before I'd ever even read him, I wrote in a mimicked style of his. Loose words flowing, and the structured placement meaning as much to me as the words that I was writing. I miss the fluidity of writing, of a pen on paper for hours at a time. I miss having that kind of devotion to an art form, to my own art, to selfish hours spent quietly scribbling. My mind lately feels exhausted and for the most part, unused. I feel as though it's been a rapid descent into motherhood, that has taken away so many parts of me that I truly loved, and took a long time to discover. I never realized how much I actually enjoyed who I was until there didn't seem to be anymore room to be that person anymore.
I would have thought that over a years period, there would be a settling of the dusk around me, that I would have fallen gracefully into motherhood. Instead I find myself struggling, and feeling like I could not have chosen an unwiser path for myself to follow. Maybe it's because I see so much of myself in my daughter that she makes me ache and that she is exhausting as I am. I love her more than I have the actual capability to describe, but I worry that it's not enough for me. I want to badly to be happy in my daily life, I don't want her growing up with a depressed parent, but I don't know how to detach myself from her and still be the parent that I want to be. I honestly wish I knew how to go to work and leave her in daycare, but the thought makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I feel like I am just waiting for change. and waiting. I just don't want to spend all my time waiting and not enjoying it.