The Dark Side of Pregnancy

I knew on Friday. But I waited in a fog of dread until Sunday to slowly walk into a dollar store, buy a Twix and a pregnancy test.

We had just moved cross country AGAIN from Texas to Washington.

I was taking online classes in an effort to finally get a bachelor's degree.

I had bought a starter kit for a jewelry company to start a small business.

The apartment was full of boxes and no furniture.

I had so many plans, exciting plans. Connecting back with moms from before, picking up community where we left it. Excited for soccer and preschool activities for my 3 year old. Relieved to finally have a place that was HOME.

I peed on the stick at home. I walked up behind my husband watching TV and handed him the Twix. He said "Thanks!"; then I wordlessly handed him the positive pregnancy test.

"What's this mean?" he asked, a little fear creeping into his voice.

"I'm pregnant" I heard my monotone voice say.

I stopped taking my anxiety medication on Friday, because I knew then. It's not supposed to create dependency, this magical medication I was taking. You're supposed to drop it cold without any problem. Maybe that's how pathetic I am, I think, that this little help I was getting is so important that I can't live without it. More likely the ensuing depression was a result of hormones and circumstances.

I felt so sick. I wanted to stay horizontal 24/7. Curtis worked from home during the day, so I had to "watch" Elwin. I'd move from the bed to the couch. TV was the great babysitter. Elwin was free to pull out whatever he wanted and play with whatever he wanted. I never cleaned anything up. I did everything halfway, because I couldn't care less or because I'd begin to feel sick and need to lay back down. Apples halfway cut left on the counter. Frozen food left out.

Sleep. I only wanted to sleep or just close my eyes and lay still. I threw up often. I had aversions to so many foods and they changed daily. I pulled over constantly when driving to throw up. I didn't want to do anything. I didn't want to see anyone. I didn't want to talk. I wanted to curl into a ball and wait for it all to be over.

Curtis grew frustrated. Why wasn't I even trying? How could I be fine, pee on a stick, and suddenly be sick all the time? He wasn't used to being around Elwin all the time, wasn't used to those jokes moms all make about having a toddler...like hiding in the bathroom just to eat something in peace. Elwin would constantly interrupt him while working. He'd tell me to get up and parent. I'd feel myself grow numb, absorbing.

He's right, I'd tell myself. I'm the worst mother. Why am I bringing another kid around. I'm a worse wife. My husband is going to leave me, find someone better to marry and then she will adopt Elwin. They'll have each other and I'll die. That's how things should be.

One night I lay in bed by myself and considered abortion. I thought maybe I could still take a plan B pill. Or just say I'm going on an errand and go to a clinic somewhere. I'd tell everyone I had a miscarriage. It felt like something I needed to do. It made sense.

I felt the weight of all the things I needed to do but couldn't. Elwin was watching TV all day long and begging me to play or take him to the park. I was snapping at him more than I ever had. Nothing about our apt felt like a home. I didn't want anyone to see it. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to see anything. I didn't want to be anything.

I told myself I could have another C-section...in and out in an hour. No labor. No pain. I promised we would sew up the tubes in the process so this could never happen again. I clung to that with everything I had in me. My only hope.

12 weeks came and went. Still sick. Still so tired. How long would this last?

Slowly, I began to have a little more energy. I felt motivated to organize one section of the apt at a time. I began to have ideas for the space, things we could hang on the walls, this piece of furniture over here. I started cleaning although I often stopped long before done because of exhaustion or sickness. I switched from working nights to mornings. Curtis switched from mornings to nights. I was able to go to bed early almost every night. The fog began to dissipate. Life seemed less dismal. There seemed reason to not just live another day but plan for the future.

Not everyone has an enjoyable pregnancy. It's not all sunshine and rainbows. And those of us with mental health issues, or those that develop mental health issues during pregnancy, we're the ones who suffer in silence. I wonder how many women who get abortions feel like I did the first 4 months of my pregnancy? We could all do with compassion and empathy training when it comes to mental health issues. No one did or said the wrong thing to me. I don't have any shocking anecdotes. But I can't help thinking about how easy it was to fade into the background, how easily I could have had an abortion and lied about it. How easy is it for me to not ask the deeper questions when I'm talking to someone? Questions that ask you to share that vulnerable part of ourselves where depression lives.

I decided earlier this year (or maybe last year, who can remember details) that I was going to stop living in fear of what someone might think, how they might respond. I decided to stop being anxious about them not know how to deal with me or my shit. I saw the depth of fear in my soul and I said "no thank you." I relapsed, obviously, but I want to get back on track. I want us talking about mental health issues. I want to be able to share the hopelessness of wanting an abortion and not worry about shocking someone's conservative sensibilities. I never want to hear someone say "well, I don't know about medication" because of the stigma connected with mental health medication. I want to be well. I want us all to be well. For that to happen, we have to talk about it. I have to talk about it.