I had forgotten just how tiring pregnancy is. Ridiculously, achingly, temper-shorteningly, tiring. Every morning I wake up in disbelief that it’s actually morning (although sometimes I wake up courtesy of The Baby and it’s not actually morning), every afternoon I am desperate for a few hours’ sleep, and every evening I’m in bed well before 9pm. And no amount of sleep is ever enough. It’s like an addiction; a little bit leads to cravings for more and more and more, and when I get more, I need even more. Shame you can’t buy sleep on the black market.
I’ve found this first stage of pregnancy, both last time and this time, quite difficult to get through. Nothing to do with the pregnancy itself, I love being pregnant, I love that my body is creating a home for our new family member. I just think feeling horrendously sick from the minute I get up to the minute I fall asleep at night, and feeling horribly exhausted, and having pain extending from my forehead all down my face most days, and not yet having any visible or palpable reason for it all, is difficult to deal with. That’s not strictly true, the non-visible part. My clothes are definitely tighter and my waist looks less like a waist and more like an overfilled sack of flour, lumpy and huge. But not yet baby-shaped, and that’s what’s difficult. I’m so looking forward to feeling the first fluttering of kicking legs and flailing arms, and having the roundness of a proper pregnant bump, I’m literally counting down the weeks.
The other thing I am finding really difficult, which I didn’t think I would but I have no idea why I didn’t, is reducing my antidepressants. I had just started to feel more like me, more able to cope with life, more energetic, when I found out I was pregnant. Even though I’m still taking them but slowly reducing the dose, I feel anxious every day that they must be harming Little Pea. With this reduced dose, I am noticing that I’m not coping with things as much; The Baby’s tantrums and tiredness, her refusal to sleep, her refusal to hear me when I tell her to stop doing something, the pile of dishes and laundry and clothes to sort out, the unfinished decorating, the mess everywhere. I am not coping with it at all. Which makes me realise that I am not yet ready to be off these tablets completely. Which makes me worry I am going to harm Little Pea. Which makes me anxious and feel like a terrible, selfish mum. Which makes me want to come off the tablets completely and be a good, selfless mum. Which makes me worry because I don’t think I can. And repeat, and repeat, and repeat.
In a perfect world there would be absolute, definitive proof that antidepressants cause no problems to an unborn baby, and things would be so simple. Unfortunately things are rarely simple, and it now comes down to whether risking problems with Little Pea outweighs the risk to my state of mind and being able to be a functioning mum to The Baby, and a functioning girlfriend, sister, daughter, friend, employee, colleague, and woman. I’ve still not drawn a conclusion yet. I’ll let you know.
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