Thursday, November 6, 2014

On Pregnancy, Depression, and More Depression

"Julia," you're saying, "it's been so long! Where ya been? What have you been up to?"

Well, this photo represents how Ward and I have both been doing for the past few months.

I know it might be unseemly to admit out loud, but I hate being pregnant. I hate it so, so much. Everything about it is terrible for me, no part of pregnancy is fun or happy. In fact, the only thing worth getting pregnant for is a baby, so that's why I still do it.

I bemoaned my pregnancy with Ward a lot, and I honestly thought I'd be happier this time around since it took us longer to conceive, but I majorly underestimated the physical and emotional toll this one would take on me. For some reason, this pregnancy has been life-alteringly bad. I have a new, terrible personality. I'm sad, weird, and just generally miserable despite having the same large group of happy, fun people around me. I find joy in about 5% of the things I used to. And physically, things are rough: I still have to eat constantly to keep from vomiting, which means I'm consuming a huge amount of calories daily (and not even enjoying it), and because of that I've gained thirty pounds and have far outgrown my maternity clothes despite having a due date that is still two months out. I have to walk slowly and with a huge waddle due to grinding pelvic bone problems, I can't sleep for more than three hours at a time, and I can hardly turn over in bed without help. I'm sad, I'm fat, I breath like a bulldog, and my boobs are like huge, sore, disgusting flesh cantaloupes (not even embarrassed to say that, it's not like everyone hasn't noticed anyway.) But worst of all, I can't be the active, happy mom I want to be for my incredible, fun little Wardy boy. He wants me so badly to do things like hold him, chase him, and dance with him, none of which I can easily do because I'm achy, fat, and sluggish. I hate it so much.

People ask to help me constantly, but it's not a matter of feeling overwhelmed for me. It's just a matter of a shell of myself. A fat shell of myself. This all despite having a huge support system of loving friends and family (including Sloan) who readily assist me and are always there to commiserate with me, too.

Don't get me wrong, I know it will pass. I'll have the baby and while I will still be fat and sweaty and exhausted for a year or so, at least I'll be more mobile and less nauseated. But feeling this way for forty weeks is something I don't suffer gracefully.