I don't get morning sickness. I don't have to carry a trash can around all day to purge. Those crazy baby hormones don't mess with me too much, with the exception of an aversion to meat cooking. People think that's all there is to pregnancy: the physical stuff. The weight gain, the fatigue, the throwing up. But for me, pregnancy comes with a huge helping of depression. And to tell you the truth, I'd rather puke all day.
My depression is sneaky. I don't realize I'm depressed. It starts as fatigue. Then I'm irritable. Then I can't think of anything in the world to do that's fun. The house gets out of control and I sit and stare at the mess and think, my kids deserve better than this. I start dry-drowning on my own thoughts. I think, why am I such a terrible mother? I think, why can't I get my shit together? I think, pregnant women have given birth in fields and I can't even clean up a fucking living room. I think, I will never be happy again. I think, my husband would have been so much happier if he married someone else. I think, he and so-and-so would have ended up together. I bet she's really tidy. I think all day. As I'm driving my daughter home to get the kids off the bus, I think, I am ruining their lives. I think, I have no interest in playing with them. I think, they'd be better off with a new Mom.
It turns in mental lashing. I can't imagine ever having he energy to tackle the day. I forget I was ever productive. Even as I type this, I struggle to remember who I was before I was incubating this person.
If cameras were following me around, you wouldn't know I was depressed. I still laugh hysterically with my husband. I still find joy in my children. It's not them, it's me. I hate myself. I hate everything there is about me. You wouldn't know it, but I think it. All day, every day. I think it without even realizing I think it.
I start projects I can't finish and I spend two days staring at the half empty boxes, thinking what a failure I am. I am overwhelmed at how out of control I feel in my life and blame myself entirely. I am so mean and unforgiving even I wouldn't be my own friend. I am lost. I am guilty.
Last night my husband crawled in beside me and reminded me gently that I'm depressed. He reminded me that I'm good and worthy and he's watched this twice already, so he can assure me that after the baby, I will be happy again. He assures me that he wouldn't have wanted to end up with anyone else but me. He assures me that I am not failing the kids. He assures me they are happy. He has learned a gentle way of handling me that doesn't stink of condescension.
My depression talks back to me but fortunately I have always been able to see around it as soon as I become aware of it. That doesn't mean I'm no longer depressed but that instead of simply allowing the thoughts, I'm arguing back with them. I'm still lost, I'm still over-whelmed but I try and allow myself the forgiveness to accept it and know that what is happening to me is out of my control. I have to remind myself that I am still me, just a version of myself warped by hormones.
I think of my baby and the rush that over comes me the minute she enters the world. After a post-partum nap, I've woken up twice, refreshed and renewed and myself again. It settles quietly over me and sits densely upon me for a good long while, but lifts quickly. I hope this is the case this time.
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