Ella’s been swearing away here for long enough, methinks.
As anyone who has caught sight of me lately already knows, Sean and I are expecting Foetus #2 in February.
That, along with other upheavals, has kept me from the blog, but I’m hoping to be back at least periodically throughout the rest of my pregnancy (no promises about how long Ella might be swearing away after that).
So, pregnancy. In some ways this pregnancy has been easier than my last, and in others it’s been much, much harder. Physically it’s been easier, because I know what to expect. I haven’t been so anxious about whether the baby will be healthy, or what horrendous chromosomal abnormality he or she may have, or having nightmares about the baby being born with unsurvivable defects as I was with Ella, because I frankly just don’t have time. To be honest, it’s probably a good thing childbirth is so incredibly painful, because if it weren’t, I probably couldn’t be bothered to stop what I’m doing long enough to *have the baby*.
The downside of this pregnancy is that I seem to be much less able to handle the seemingly boundless pressure to make sure Sean’s office, my business, and the household are all running effectively before this baby makes his or her arrival. Things are in a constant state of flux depending on which entity I can afford to pay close attention to in any particular week, and I realize now that I’ve been in denial for the last two months about just how bad I feel. Nearly constant anxiety, moments of panic, and entire days of feeling hopeless and sad finally came to a boiling point, mercifully on a day when I happened to have an appt with my midwife that Sean could attend. Poor Sean was taken aback by just how bad it’s been as I sat in the midwife's office and cried, since he’s seen all of this mostly manifest itself as irritability and short-temperedness and I’ve been able to keep the anxiety and despair mostly under wraps. My midwife was – and is – supportive and assured us that this is a perfectly normal reaction to so much stress during pregnancy, but also is concerned about it getting worse if I’m not able to offload some responsibility. Another major concern is the postpartum situation may be magnified if I’m going into the birth feeling like this.
SO, why am I posting this all over the Interweb? Why haven’t I already told any of you any of this? Why in the hell can’t I just ask for help, for Christ’s sake? Because on days when I feel relatively sane and okay, the last thing I want to do is talk about how bad I really feel. I know it will lead to a breakdown each and every time I try to explain it, and the thought of doing that over and over is just too much for me to bear. My rational self realizes the folly in that reasoning, and knows that nobody can help or support me if they don’t even know what’s going on (Sean included). Unfortunately my rational self is simply not in charge right now. I hope everyone I love can understand that, and understand that I don’t think I’m really in a position to ask for help. Despite how ridiculous it sounds, having to ask for help – just thinking about WHAT I would ask someone to do – compounds the anxiety.
Having said all of that, please be assured that I’m not ready to hurl myself from a cliff. I’m doing what I think my rational self would consider the smart thing – admitting that I’m really struggling. If I don’t return phone calls, it’s not because you’re not important to me. It’s more likely because I’m having a bad day and the very thought of trying to sound normal on the phone is crippling. Or it’s because I’m up to my eyeballs in felt, fleece, or dental stuff and I’m busy putting out this or that fire.
The bottom line is that I know I will be fine, but I may need everyone to cut me a little slack while I try to survive the next few months with my sanity intact.
With gloom, doom, and the rest of it,
Dana
