Just over two years after my ex husband and I separated, I met my best friend.
I am incredibly blessed to now call him my fiance. He is also the father of my unborn son.
As
this little bundle of joy was very much planned and very much wanted,
we had time to consult my trusted GP and work out a plan to manage any
depression that could threaten the pregnancy, or effect me shortly there after.
Because of my severe AND and PND history, it was
suggested that before my Man and I even started to try for a baby, that I start taking antidepressants.
I
was hesitant about this, as I had refused these drugs during both of my
previous pregnancies, but I was also aware how much they had helped me
once I had accepted them. I had only stayed on the medication for roughly 6
months after the birth of my daughter, as it seemed that it was only
during the hormonal instability of pregnancy, and the following few
months after, that the levels in my brain reacted so strangely.
The
theory was that I would start on the safest possible antidepressant for
pregnancy, on the lowest dose, and just see what happened. If, for some
amazing reason I didn't spiral into the same dark state, then no harm
done (or perhaps that small dose was just enough to keep me level).
However, if I started to display any of the signs of a swiftly
deteriorating mental state, it would be easy to increase the dose,
without putting me through any initial adjustment reactions (which can
really knock you about as your body regulates the new medication). It seemed a great idea.
I had been on the medication for 3 months when we fell pregnant.
For the first trimester I felt just fine, I felt normal.
Sad thoughts didn't even enter my head, as I was too busy enjoying the
excitement and romantic bliss coming from this little tummy gremlin.
When
the second trimester hit, so did the depression.
I have heard depression
described as a shadowy villain that creeps up on you, and then proceeds
to follow you around, blowing its filthy, thick, black smoke around
everything you love, until everything in your life is tainted by its
miserable stench. I've always found this quite accurate.
All of a
sudden, I had started to become a crazy lady again.
This time
was different though. I was straight back to the GP, the meds were
increased, and instead of keeping the remaining crazy inside, I wore it proudly.
I now find myself just crossing into the third trimester.
My
head, though at times still slightly unstable, is for the most part a
happy place to be.
Now, instead of crying and trying to talk myself out
of self-harm, I walk around my house confused because I can't
find my phone. Which I have put in the freezer. While I was taking out a
roast for dinner. Which I have put in the bathroom. I'm one of those types of pregnant ladies.
I
have greatly enjoyed this pregnancy so far, even with all the physical
bollocks that I am racked with. My body doesn't respond physically well
to pregnancy either.
You know those amazing, glowing women who react so
well to pregnancy? So much so, that they're the happiest and healthiest
they have ever been? Yeah, I'm the opposite to that.
If the glowing
women were proud lionesses; coats shining in the sun, proudly roaring as
they look after their mate and all their cubs, casually multitasking
whilst still finding the time to have an afternoon nap and groom themselves, then I am a stray cat.
Body
riddled with ailments, puking up everything I eat in inappropriate
places, coated in matted fur and crooked whiskers, getting under every
bodies feet whilst constantly mewing at them.
Then I get hit by a car.
I've recently developed a horrible case of SPD, which is short for Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction.
Basically my pelvis is separating far more then it should, due to an
over load of the hormone Relaxin, amongst other factors. Hips click in
and out too. It totally and utterly sucks.
If you have ever
suffered with this, I honestly send you all my sympathies.
Cause it
really does suck like a Hoover - it's the worst pain I've ever been in.
And
still, this is the happiest I have ever been in pregnancy. I make jokes
about getting around resembling an old woman. Try to laugh and call
myself a cripple when I scream like a Bieber fan, as I cling to
furniture to help me stand up. I try to make other people laugh, telling
them how I cried for 10 minutes because I couldn't get up the stairs to
get my toothbrush.
It's horribly painful, but Ive found the
brighter side. I'm just lucky my Man is so loving and helpful when he
gets home from work, waiting on me hand and foot. Even when I am a cripple with a cold.
I
do my best to see myself in a positive light, even when in this state.
I
imagine my Man stepping into the lounge room to find me gracefully
reclining on the couch.
Hands softly caressing my baby bump. Wearing a
red, sexy, satin nightie, and having my hair fall in dark curls around my
face. My just-got-over-a-cold voice is sexy and husky, and I know
when I tell him that I love him, he thinks its the sexiest thing he's
ever heard.
This is though, of course, a total fantasy.
In reality, he really
walks into the lounge, and finds me straddling miss matched pillows, and
partially under a cover-less doona with Vegemite stains on it. I'm
dressed in granny panties and an old band shirt with hair dye stains,
with my hair forcefully knotted atop my head.
My voice, far from smooth
and sexy, instead resembles that of Harvey Fierstein (who plays Robin
Williams' gay brother in Mrs. Doubtfire) as I rasp harshly about how fat
I feel.
Then I cough, and shoot something that resembles Mike Wazowski
from Monsters Inc. straight into my hands, and stick my ungroomed legs
out from under Vegemite-doona, which, oddly enough are in fact so hairy they resemble a pair of Sulley's (the big blue guy, also from Monsters Inc.).
Then
I tell my Man that I love him, and he holds me, kisses my forehead, tells
me I'm still beautiful, then cooks me dinner and does the laundry.
And just like that, reality doesn't seem so bad.
Love the lovely Man <3
No comments:
Post a Comment