If we can just survive the first five months of this pregnancy our lives will get better.
That’s what I told my thirteen year old that was taking care of our entire family because we didn’t have any other help.
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine.
The first five months are always the worst. The first five months are when I’m either throwing up or I want to be throwing up. They are when I’m so sick that I lie in bed and fantasize about dying and I wonder why I am bringing another child into a world with so much suffering.
After the first five months I’m still sick but at least I can get out of bed and wash my hair. Life always looks better with clean hair.
I can’t believe I did that six times.
This time would be like all the rest. I would be sick for a few months and then I would slowly start feeling better and we would go back to our regular lives with a new sweet baby tagging along.
The only problem was I wasn’t slowly getting better. I was slowly getting worse. Not only was I physically ill but I was seriously depressed. I remember hearing little people coming into my room and going out again saying, “She’s crying again.”
I was always crying.
I had a lot of things to be crying about but when you stack depression on top of life’s problems they aren’t bumps in the road anymore. They become precipices.
I have written exactly eighty blog posts and I’ve published exactly forty of them. I write so many things that no one ever reads and I want to write so much more.
I don’t know when I wrote this and I probably had no intention of ever posting it but it’s late and I want to post something, so here you go. Maybe I had a point. Maybe I’ll finish it someday.