Pinterest Saved My Life

Something I need to tell you. I am depressed. I am pregnant. I am depressed because I am pregnant.

By depressed, I don't mean I feel sad a little bit because I'm uncomfortable in my own skin and have to pee every five minutes or because my life is changing every day and I can't go back and change my decision now.

By depressed, I mean I talk to myself out loud about everything that's bothering me, then I realize my daughter can hear me; I try to comfort her and assure her mommy's not mad at her; she ends up comforting me to the best of her ability, and I just sit in a chair sobbing into her long hair.

My husband comes home and says, "Maya, let's go get Starbucks!" but she's so cozy with me and uncomprehending of the agony I'm feeling that she won't leave. So, I pry her off, go hide in the bathroom, and sob into a dirty towel I've been meaning to clean for days, but I haven't. And, I don't care.

Only, I do.

I try to tell myself I don't care. I blame other people for my hurts. I think this will make me feel better.

It doesn't because I also know it's a lie.

I sleep, but can't sleep well. I dream terrible dreams. I dream of losing my baby, of having her stolen from me, of losing my family, of moving away or being sent away.

By depressed, I mean I stayed home and allowed him to take her out to get junk food while I attempted to sleep. But I couldn't. So, I drank a glass of red wine. I curled up in a cozy blanket. I closed my eyes. I counted to 100 and back.

I felt guilty for drinking that glass of wine.

I thought, 'I am a bad mother.'

I thought, 'I am not fit to carry a child inside me.'

I felt angry at my husband for insisting that a biological child was the only way I'd get my dream of growing our family even though I have been steadfast in my desire to adopt.

I feel angry that the meds aren't working as well as they would if I weren't hormonal. I feel resentful that my doctor wants me to increase the meds because I already feel guilty using them while I'm pregnant.

By depressed, I mean that within one hour of trying to find a comfortable spot to lie in and trying to count as high as I could to numb out my mind, I finally started thinking about putting a gun to my head or a knife in my arm. Anything to bring release.

According to my pregnancy journal, my fetus would survive okay without me at this point. Medicine and machinery could take care of her. But, what about my husband? What about my daughter? What about my babies growing up without their mother?

As flawed as I am, wouldn't it be better for them to have their mother? I have good times. I have healthy times. I just have to get through this.

I decided to read articles on pregnancy and depression. Oh, joy, I'm the one in ten again. Oh, and it's a sure shot I'll have PPD again.

So, I tore through my drawers and unearthed some old t-shirts. I found my sharpest pair of scissors, put on some tunes, and surfed Pinterest for t-shirt projects.

I made three balls of t-shirt yarn, four t-shirt sleeve burp clothes for baby, and two braided belts Maya can use as a headband or tie around her precious, little waist.

When hubby and princess came back, I went with them to Pinballz and played Skee Ball. I let Maya eat candy. Then, we went to the bookstore. James offered to get what I needed at the grocery store so I could come home and pee (for the millionth time today). We ate dinner and watched Snow White and the Seven Dwarves while I cut up more t-shirts and searched for more projects I could do with them.

I decided to live another day. Sometimes, that's the best I can do.