I have been struggling with writing this post for some time now- it isn’t a pretty topic. No, I am not going to go into a diatribe about hemorrhoids. Readers, you probably know by now that I have no qualms talking about some of the ugliest pregnancy “miracles.” Though hemorrhoids suck (and, like an idiot, I just found out my stubborn refusal to ditch the stilettos during pregnancy is actually more to blame than That Girl), the biggest thing that has been cramping my style is prenatal depression. *Gasp* yes, it actually does exist, and *gasp of gasps* pregnancy depression could actually be more common than its more famous sister, postpartum depression. But, who is admitting they are depressed when they are preggers? Well, for a while not this Momma, and not many other people either… Unless Google was in cahoots with all the pregnant ladies of the world, and decided to try to hide this whole thing from me when I wanted to find out if pregnancy depression was just a mythic, close cousin of unicorns or if what I was going through was real.
I started writing this post in January, then got all chicken and let it sit in my drafts folder. I texted and talked about it with a select few friends way back in November, then pretended I hadn’t said anything the next time I saw them. I even asked my doctor about it in September, and felt ashamed when she said This is the most exciting time of my life and I really shouldn’t be feeling this way… but to let her know if it gets worse. Really, the whole thing waxed and waned throughout the first eight months of my pregnancy, nothing too big to tackle. If I hauled my pregnant-patootey to the gym 3/4 days a week and got a daily nap it didn’t even rear its fat, little frowning raindrop head. In fact, I felt like a million bucks even with it being a cold-ass winter.
So, why even bring it up, right? Well, a couple of reasons:
The second reason being that a bigger baby and closer due date is seriously impeding my motivation and ability to get in those workouts. Add to that a still(?!) growing, aching belly and raging heartburn that would indicate I am preparing to birth a baby dragon that are seriously getting in the way of sleep of *any* kind. Stir in raging hormones, that little voice that keeps reminding me that labor isn’t that far away, and the fact that I am desperately aware that my silhouette looks more like an over-the-road truck driver’s with each passing day, and I am having a hard time faulting the knocked-up for being those fat, sad little raindrops.
Woah, Debbie-downer! Go ahead, look for your Xanax… I’ll be here when you get back. But seriously… what’s a girl to do when she can’t even knock back those sweet, pink-tinted vodka drinks and chain smoke Camels with the girls to help raise her spirits? Eating cupcakes and trolling the mall is decidedly too expensive and fattening, but an oh so tempting option at this point.
I done gone and did it again, all talking about pregnancy stuff you aren’t supposed to talk about. But, its not like they can revoke my vajayjay and kick me out of the “I grow people” club for sharing the dirty little secrets of pregnancy, right?
