I remember when my blood test came back positive,
"Congratulations, is this your first one?"
I nodded to my doctor. I was with child. For the next few months, I puked and cried and slept. I tried to maintain a normal life and I failed. I had to turn vegetarian, I cut out sweets, I was disgusted by cheese. I lived off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and prayed it was a boy.
Every ultrasound, every sonogram I was terrified. Panicked there'd be no movement, no growth, scared it would somehow all be taken away from me.
Three years earlier, I was told having children was going to be extremely difficult. That I should look into in vitro and adoption. I was told to go back on the pill to help regulate my Polycycstic Ovary Syndrome. I cried for days over this news.
Now, pregnant, I am constantly filled with fear that I'll do something wrong, something will go wrong. I'll be alone with the memories of terrible kicks to my spine and punches while I desperately tried to sleep.
The day we found out it was a girl, I was slightly crestfallen. I'm one of four girls, all I wanted was a boy. My husband, patted my leg with so much joy in his eyes.
She's alive.
That's all that I cared about. She was alive with no major issues. Seeing her, really seeing her changed something inside of me.
I thought it was a positive but things quickly went dark. I cried, daily. I was anxious and frustrated and some days I simply couldn't get out of bed. There was the fear of somehow losing her. There was the disaster that was my home not even partially prepped for a baby. There was the financial stress I was already under being added to by specialist visits to manage my high risk pregnancy. There was the slow limitations of my body. There was the unsexifying of my body. There was a distance brewing between my husband and I. My frustrations were not his frustrations. He had started a new job, working nights and my concerns over a nursery currently burdened by essentially the leftovers of a move from two-years ago were not a high priority for him.
September 26th looms in the distance and I am overly ready and at the same time not at all. My house is in shambles. It's a dry heat in the 90s where I live. I'm exhausted. Just maintaining the dishes, laundry and daily dog walks is becoming a strain. I still work full-time and plan on returning to work after the birth. I need the money. I've started to retreat from social gatherings. I've started to hate that I do that. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I love.
Envious of those women who have happy pregnancies, blissful even. Those who beam with love and pride. Those who say they never felt more beautiful than when they were pregnant. I don't feel beautiful. I don't feel happy. I feel fear. I'm quick to anger. Fast at annoyance. I'm tired. I'm so tired.
I can't afford these feelings. I can't afford this baby. I can't afford to not find joy in my life.
At night, with these feelings trying to pull me under. I feel her kick. I feel her shudder. I feel her grow. She's making me weaker. She's already draining me. I still muster the strength to whisper "I Love You" to her as she let's me settle into uncomfortable sleep.
