Gray Skies are Gonna Clear Up.

Yesterday was a much better day. I was anxious in the morning, but by afternoon felt like my old self, with the addition of the blush of euphoria that comes after emergence from a Dark Time. If pressed to find upsides to dealing with anxiety or depression, certainly one of them would be the fact that life is never sunnier and more precious than it is upon emergence from the depths of despair. Today my calm has faded somewhat, but I suspect this is partially due to apprehension over the upcoming weekend. Weekends are always difficult during these spells—all those hours to fill, all that space to think. But I am making an appointment with a reproductive psychiatrist, and at least I seem to be back to plain old anxiety, without the baby-related freakouts (though I am sure those will reappear from time to time) and ensuing shroud of guilt. And for this last, I have all of you to thank.
Last night I was able to enjoy my babies again (though, confidential to my daughter: a mother who is rendered unable to take a full breath by the presence of a head near her lung is unlikely to buy the owner of said head a pony), solely because of the kindness and reassurance that flooded my comment section. I feel inadequately able to express how much it meant to me. I have bookmarked the entry so that I can return to your words as needed, to remind me that even when I am sitting by myself, wretchedly tearing a piece of toilet paper (I never do remember to buy Kleenex) into irregular bits, I am virtually surrounded by a phalanx of bright, compassionate friends.

I wish a bit more was said about the emotional upheavals of pregnancy. There seem to be plenty of anecdotes and sitcom scenarios about pregnant-lady breakdowns related to, say, running out of ice cream or feeling fat, but few about the meatier issues. Like the fact that while the sensation of fetal movement is usually cause for awe and delight, occasionally it might just seem…creepy. Or the experience—which your comments lead me to believe is nearly universal—of questioning your ability to withstand the emotional shrapnel of parenting, and wondering just what you have gotten yourself into, anyway. Not that the lesser freakouts don’t occur: running out of ice cream is never pleasant, and when my husband recently informed me that my breasts were beginning to look “a little ‘National Geographic’” I was understandably piqued. But those upsets simply do not carry the same potential for psychological torment as fears that seem to fly in the face of what you expect of yourself as a mother-to-be, and what you assume the rest of the world expects of you as well.

And of course there are the hormones, and the challenge of remembering just how powerful they are. As many of you wisely observed, when you are in the thick of things, it is difficult to have the requisite perspective for an Alice in Wonderland “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!” moment.

Incidentally, if any of you find yourself feeling fearful of your unborn and their prospective scorn, I have discovered it is helpful to remind yourself that they are only babies. If you tend toward personification, as I do, you may unconsciously be thinking of your womb-mates as tiny people, with the same ability to form complicated thoughts as adults. In reality, however, they are cognitively only a step or two above Carrot Top. I spent a lot of time last weekend convinced my babies would hate me, failing to remember that babies rarely hate their mothers, simply because they don’t know any better. When they roll about in my uterus, they aren’t thinking sinister, parasitic thoughts. They won’t lie in their cribs silently judging me. They won’t compare me unfavorably to other mothers they have known, provided I am not foolish enough to let them see other mothers in action. They won’t even mind my National Geographic-ready breasts (or “dinner”). After all, my cats like me, and cats are significantly harder to please than babies. Even Miss Rothschild assures me that my children will find me lovable, though she stipulates that this is only because neonates have notoriously bad taste in literature, and once they are old enough to recognize masterful prose, all bets are off.

I will continue to chronicle my mental foibles, and will let you know what I hear from the reproductive psychiatrist. Obviously I would like to get back to my previous state of mental health for the remainder of this pregnancy, but just as importantly, I need to have a plan in place to ward off issues postpartum. Perhaps not surprisingly, many of my panic attacks this past week have centered around my fear of postpartum anxiety and depression (I am the sort that mostly panics about panic—none of that pesky logic for me!).

But that is another topic for another day. The point is, having grown the cojones to post an if-you-prick-me-do-I-not-hyperventilate expose of my emotional reaction to pregnancy, I see no reason to lop them off now. While I may fail to update due to laziness, I will never again do so out of fear. Unless it is fear of prosecution for libel, or something. Or fear of missing a new episode of Friday Night Lights. Or fear of walking allll the way over to the computer.
But not fear of inspiring shock and hatred with my oh-so-original human frailities. Because thank heavens, I am not nearly as unique as I think I am.