Antenatal Depression, part II, or, How can one person be so lucky and yet feel so doomed?

It's taken a while to work up the courage to write this post. I've thought about it often: what I would write, what the narrative arc would be, how I would explain myself. But waiting for inspiration hasn't worked; I still don't know how to do this. I've just decided to take the plunge, see what comes out, and hope that it makes sense.

My previous post laid out in somewhat impersonal terms the fruits of my research into antenatal (or prenatal) depression. It should be fairly obvious that the interest I have in the topic is not impersonal at all, but rather touches on some of the darker moments of my pregnancy. I am now in my seventeenth week, which is just over three months of real time given that two weeks is added to the date of conception when calculating how 'far along' a pregnancy is. It's been a really hard few months, I must say, and not how I expected it to be at all.

I've written before, repeatedly, about the physical challenges associated with early pregnancy. For me, these have been accompanied by a noticeable if uneven descent into emotional volatility that was unexpected and difficult to deal with. After all, this was a planned pregnancy; we were successful at our first attempt at pregnancy; and we are financially secure. What's not to be excited about? My love of lists dictates I must set this out in a list form for clarity, so here goes:

1) Dependence/independence. The physical symptoms of pregnancy have been so debilitating as to make me dependent on Simon for almost everything- at one stage he had to shower me and wash my hair because I couldn't do it myself. He has consistently done the food shopping, the cooking and the dishes since my earliest symptoms and has been pretty good at laundry and house-cleaning as well. While on the one hand I rejoice in having bagged such a good man, on the other I have found myself feeling quite helpless and weak, unable (or unwilling?) to complete the basic household tasks that have been part of my life for over a decade. This has not been good for my confidence or self-esteem. (How do single women who are pregnant do it? I salute them and what surely must be their untidy houses, stacks of empty takeaway containers and frustrations at having run out of milk/shampoo/washing powder, again.)

2) Control. The control that I have lost during this process has been shocking. If this is what it means to put another being first - by which I mean that the baby has been taking my energy first, leaving me with whatever is left over, forcing me to acknowledge that I am not important after all - then I am not sure I want to be a parent! So many of my former pleasures have been foresaken for this pregnancy. I do not enjoy eating, even the junk food that occasionally is the only thing the baby will accept as fuel. I do not enjoy sleeping, as the baby will wake me whenever it needs me to eat more. I do not enjoy choosing an outfit in the morning, as I have packed away my civilian clothes for a time when I am less rotund. I do not enjoy sex, as my libido has almost entirely disappeared. And so on. My life is just not my own any more, and working out what to do for fun is difficult indeed.

3) Finally, and I reckon this may actually be the crux of it, I am absolutely terrified of being a parent. My appalled reaction to the issues of discomfort and dependence has lent itself to a suspicion that actually, I am too selfish to be a parent. My own mother faced similar soul-searching questions when I and then my brother were born, and was not always successful in negotiating the balance between her needs and ours. I grew up with the notion that children are a lot of hard and at times unrewarding work, and that they are a drain on one's professional and social opportunities. Not suprisingly, this resulted in my a) feeling somewhat in the way, and b) feeling that I wouldn't be having any children of my own, thankyou very much. Meeting Simon dissolved my conviction about the latter, and it has only been pregnancy that has reminded me of the former, in vivid terms. I do not want my children to feel like they are a burden or a drain on me; and yet, that is how I have experienced this pregnancy, as something to be endured until it is all over.

As a result of all of these things, self-doubt has taken over my mind and functioned to dilute my excitement about the prospect of having a child, to the point of its being almost non-existent. Sometimes I can hear my inner voice saying, 'I don't want this child'; at this point, weeping is common and apocalyptic predictions are rife. ('What if I am not cut out for this and have to leave the baby with Simon and run away, like that woman does in The Riders?') Which is terrible - what has this child done wrong? Come to that, what has Simon done wrong? (Answer: absolutely nothing.) The baby may be oblivious (though I suspect my depression must impact on it in some way) but Simon is not; he is living it all with me, the lack of enthusiasm, the fear, the pessimism. He is as shocked and possibly more bruised than I am. This is not how it was meant to be.

And of course, the vicious circle that is depression makes escape difficult, much more so than one can understand, I sometimes think, from the outside. I often fall into the trap of presuming that the power of positive thinking must help me. So when I am unable to do this, unable to convince myself through repetition or just blind determination, that I will be happy and it will all be fine, then I blame myself again, for being weak, or disorganised, or ill-disciplined. Which in turn brings on further self-hatred and despair, in the face of a looming deadline (only 23 weeks to go!) when I really do have to pull myself together and take responsibility for another little human.

Having said all this, I do not wish to leave you with a completely bleak outlook. I am actively engaging with the things I can do to help myself and help Simon, according to all the prevailing wisdom. I am swimming at one of the hotel pools and doing antenatal yoga for exercise; I am eating reasonably well; I cooked dinner last night and experienced the gratification of a job well done; and I am having counselling. We are also in negotiations to buy a house in Castlemaine, which may lead us to finally move to a place we can settle down. Simon and I, though frustrated and experiencing some hard times emotionally, seem to be getting through it ok by keeping lines of communication open, and being as honest and as gentle as we can be with each other. And although I avoided my friends for a long time so as to not have to admit to being ungrateful or unappreciative of my good fortune in being pregnant with a wonderful man, I have now started to make contact again.

Indeed, if you are reading this and have recently been aware of a certain lack of communicatory zeal from me... please forgive me. I need you all, even if it doesn't look like it from where you are. I certainly haven't forgotten you. I've just been fighting these inner demons that have crept up on me and made me feel overwhelmed, trapped and unworthy.

May none of you experience such darkness at what is, rationally speaking, an exciting time in life. And may I be able to return at some point in the not-too-distant future and report that I have recovered, been emancipated, and am back to where I expected to be, happy and planning for a bright if complex future of parenthood and responsibility.