We’re going to change my antidepressant. I knew it weeks ago (in fact, I probably mentioned it in some long, wordy blog post) but what I was on was just not working. Well, now the overpriced psychiatrist finally agrees with me. So we’ll try a new pill.
I should be delivering a beautiful baby girl in 3 weeks and a new pill is supposed to make it better that I won’t ever get to hold her? It’ll make it better that she was scraped out of me on Mother’s Day at 16 weeks gestation instead of me laboring with her and hearing that first cry. Some pill is going to make me not hate my body and hate myself every day for the rest of my life? Doubtful.
The psychiatrist asked about my daily schedule and how I function. I don’t. All I do is take care of Sweetie. That’s all I have the strength for and many days I barely have that. We were supposed to go to all these fun classes together this fall- half the time we don’t go because I just can’t face other people and every class but one we signed up for has a pregnant woman or a woman that brings her little infant and her toddler. Some days we get in the car and drive to a park and we turn around and go home if I see other people there- other mothers with multiple children, other mothers who are pregnant. I just can’t do it. It’s just another way that I’m ruining her life- not only does my body kill her siblings, my f*cked up mental state is taking her away from playdates, classes and library storyhours.
Sweetie is too beautiful and sweet and lovable. She’s all I live for and I don’t think that’s good for her anymore. Every moment I look at her I know that having me as a mother is going to mess her up. I’m just too far gone. I look at potentially having a surrogate carry another baby for us and I don’t even know why I think I deserve that, why I should have more children when I know what I’m like inside now? Broken. Shattered. Beyond fixing.