“What just happened there?” My psychiatrist said, watching the vast array of emotion flit across my face after she suggested I go back on Prozac during my pregnancy.
“So many women experience anxiety, depression, and PTSD during pregnancy . . . You’re not alone.”
I was back in familiar territory at Women’s College Hospital. I’d been part of their Reproductive Life Stages Program before, but this time, sitting in front of the psychiatrist, I felt twice as vulnerable.
My daughter is out of diapers. She is in a great school and has a great routine. My ex-hubs and I are amicable and have worked out a really solid approach to co-parenting.
I have a dog.
I have a small business with ever-changing demands.
I have a new, supportive, and amazing relationship.
I have friends that I can visit with, and events that I can say "yes" to, confident in my child care routine.
After many years, my life is finally coming together.
I’m selling my family home as part of the divorce.
My rational self knows the outcome is going to be great for both the Ex and me, but getting through it this far has been exhausting. It’s been sort of like stepping into an inviting, buttercup-frosted meadow only to be blown sky high by emotional landmines.
I’m frozen in the bathroom in post-shower nudity. For some reason I can’t even grab the towel in front of me and water is dripping noisily against the ceramic.
“YOU’RE GOING TO DIE.”
I swallow hard. I can feel my pulse running so quickly and high that it’s become a throaty tremolo.
You’re going for a regular ultrasound check up in your first or second trimester, and you find out that your baby has stopped growing.
Your world shatters in less than a moment. Your life slams on the brakes. Your heart will never be the same. And it’s just the beginning.
Not only have you just found out that you have lost your child, but you also have to figure out the most upsetting thing in the world: how you’re going to get it out of you.
Everyone seems to gloss over that, and I’m not sure why.
I am not good with pain—physical or emotional. I laugh inappropriately, I zone out, and I bare all my teeth in a pretty freaky ‘I’m OK—really I am’ grin. (Think: Disney's Beauty and the Beast. "Show me your debonaire smile..")
Last week I was sitting in the hospital emergency room, waiting to be seen for a leg injury. Nothing overly exciting had happened—during a fun visit to the cottage, I ripped my hamstring while waterskiing.
As I sat under the neon lights my head started spinning.
What is support? Why does everyone have advice to give? And when do you draw the line when things start to feel, well, yucky, for lack of a better word?
