I feel like I can’t write this post. I feel like I shouldn’t write this post. I feel selfish, entitled – privileged even. I feel like everyone is going to hate me and that I should just shut up and be happy. I am happy. I am happy about being pregnant. I am grateful.
I am, it’s just my throat burns from all the vomiting and my crutch feels like someone keeps kicking me in it.
When I hear myself complaining about how ill and tired I am, I just want to punch myself in the face. I am sick of my moaning. I am sick of being such a miserable, boring amoeba of a human being. Half the time I’m not really here, I’m coasting through the latter parts of the day. I’m in the room but I’m not listening to you. I’m just so tired and whatever it is you are eating is making me nauseous.
If I over do it, a few days at work or a busy weekend – I spend twice as much time paying for it after. A three day headache, pelvic pain from all the walking. We went to a wedding and I had to sit in a wooden chair during the meal and speeches for about three hours, I kid you not it took the best part of the weekend for that agony to go away.
Yes, from sitting in a bloody chair. I’m not even that pregnant, I wrote this at 16 weeks.
I could cope if this really would only last six weeks. But week after week, month after month I’m stuck down a rabbit hole and the clouds are gathering.
I’ve been telling everyone that I’m mostly fine, just a little sick and tired. That’s how you’re supposed to feel, that’s expected. People are sympathetic to that, they offer to make you a cup of tea and say things like “it will all be over in a few weeks”.
Except I can’t drink tea anymore and it won’t be over soon. If I told you the truth it wouldn’t be pretty. Would you like to know how this morning alone I’ve thrown up thirteen times? With so much force that it flew out of my nose and all up the bathroom mirror. Should I tell you that I can’t clean my house and that I haven’t done so properly in what is now weeks? Weeks because just moving around makes me sick, just the thought of it.
I have lost a stone and a half in just over two months. Thank god I’m fat. No seriously, thank god I’m fat – it really is just as well. If I didn’t have that extra weight to lose, I think this could become a big problem.
The Midwife says I have a high count of ketones in my Urine. Apparently that’s not good, so we have to keep checking. “Are you eating enough?” she grins at me. She’s a nice lady but I could smack her in the mouth.
I give her a muted version of my troubles. She recommends Peppermint Tea. I recommend that she fucks off.
Clearly we have different approaches to life.
I feel like I can’t complain about how awful this pregnancy is. I feel like I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I chose this and I am lucky enough for it to be happening. I need to just get on with it.
Some people can’t have babies. Some people have lost babies. Some people are alone. Some people are dying. There are more important things, worse things happening, than me being up the duff. And yet for me it is all consuming, it is with me everywhere I go. I can’t get away from it, I can’t not feel like this for even a minute. It’s like I’ve had a hangover for four months. Apart from when I am asleep, when I’m asleep I feel fine.
“It will all be worth it in the end!” say this to me if you are feeling adventurous.
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