Hellobee

When I first found out at the tender age of 21 that I was pregnant, I felt devastated and alone. None of my friends were getting married; most of them weren’t even in a serious relationship. I attended a very religious university so while others might be having sex out of the marital bed, the percentage was probably low, or exceptionally tight lipped or both. I couldn’t find a voice that I could relate to in the bloggersphere that didn’t sound like Teen Mom (which I’ve never seen) or Juno (which I have seen). I didn’t feel like I had anyone I could reach out to and have them tell me it was all going to be okay. None of them sounded like me — a girl planning on getting married to the love of her life, but currently still working and attending classes full time at the local university. It just felt too specific. And despite other people’s happiness for us once we announced, I just couldn’t join in enthusiastically. I couldn’t embrace the joy, especially since I kept looking back over that summer and going, “Where did it all go wrong?”

For months prior to Patrick’s birth, Mr. Bear and I would look back and reminisce fondly over some of the things we did, only to stop mid-way through as we realized, “Oh, you/I must have been X number of weeks along.” It suddenly put them into a new context. One that caused us to examine them for any clues about our impending discovery that we had a bun in the oven. But we genuinely struggled to find any.

I was nauseous a week in June but we had chalked that up to either A) a bad tomato from a taco salad at his parents’ house one weekend or B) the fact that there was a stomach bug going around. The first is likely since another family member also came down with a similar illness for a few days and I only threw up once, that evening immediately following the luncheon. The second was also just as reasonable since I didn’t feel as if I was going to hurl all the time; I just didn’t have an appetite because the thought of food made me whimper and want to curl up into a ball. That week, sure, I’ll say that it pointed to pregnancy. But since I had been on the pill for so long and they had so many cases of a stomach bug coming in that week, the clinic I went to didn’t do a simple urine test to confirm that I was indeed not pregnant like I thought. And I told them that I thought that I wasn’t.

After that one week everything was fine. I was back to work, school, working out at the YMCA, feeling great and fit. Everything was going well with the planning of our wedding. Life was good. I just didn’t feel pregnant even though I was. No sudden tenderness or fatigue, no bloating, no sudden weight gain, no back pains that couldn’t be explained from work or workout related activity. Not a blip. But the ‘out of nowhere’ feeling that accompanied my first pregnancy decidedly drove my emotions into a tailspin.

I was terrified. I was terrified to tell my parents that their youngest daughter, who was still living at home with them and driving their car to work and class every day, was pregnant. Yes my mother had gotten pregnant with my older brother a few years younger than me (she was 19 to my 21) and everything had turned out fine. She had my brother, then my sister 16 months later, and still managed to finish her degree. But somehow it felt like I should have known better. Or that the times had changed so much that it was looked upon much worse now than it was then. I felt like I should have learned from her experience instead of repeating it  – and repeat I did, since my two are 13 months apart. I was also terrified how my school would view it. With its religious affiliation, I wasn’t sure my university could handle a pregnant student without some sort of backlash. I just wanted to attend classes and do my job, be with my friends. I wanted to be that person you knew instead of that person you heard about as gossip, you know?

But it wasn’t just the fear of how I thought people would perceive me that I found crippling. That eventually abated to a much more manageable fear of the unknown when it came to the the actual birthing experience. After all, we announced and everyone was “fine” with it even when they weren’t “okay” with it. Fear managed! But in its place came the anger. And it wasn’t even anger at anyone specifically. Some days I would be angry that the birth control pill had failed. Sometimes it would be at the unknown babe taking up residence in my uterus, alien and unwanted. Sometimes it was even (very irrationally) my mother because she should have warned me about our fertility. Most of my anger was at how my body was changing and accommodating to this new life form, which is why you’ll never find a deliberate bump picture during this time. I just couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror and had as many of them covered up at our house as I could. I just felt huge, ungainly, and graceless and I couldn’t stand it. Any time I looked in a mirror I would look from the shoulders up and ignore the rest of me as much as I could; I was that angry and that much in denial over the changes.

I know this is all reasonable for a pregnancy – mood swings can be a dime a dozen during this time in our lives! I mean, we’re growing a baby! But the low points that I hit and stayed stuck on were less normal. I should have sought help… should have talked to someone about the feelings besides Mr. Bear who did his best to be kind, thoughtful, and supportive, but honestly didn’t know what to do with the mess I had made myself. Those low points were the times when I felt like my world had ended, and they were a constant thrumming underneath all the other emotions. No matter how much I could squeal over a cute owl motif on a piece of baby clothing, that feeling would creep up and poison the moment. It put a damper even on the tiniest glimmer of light. Even on my wedding day when Mr. Bear and I said “I do” in front of friends and family with the beauty of nature surrounding us, I just wanted it to be over. I wanted it to be done because I was certain that nothing in the world could feel as bad as I was feeling all. the. time. I can remember laying in bed crying, just weeping, because I didn’t want to feel the bumps and kicks anymore. I wanted it all to just be over, for the baby to be born.

I just wasn’t connected and I didn’t want to be connected. My logic was that if being disconnected hurt this much, how much more awful would it be to care? Times like this I should have reached out. I could have reached out to my physical therapist, whom I saw once a week to realign my hips and stretch them out a little further. I should have reached out to my midwives but since I was on a rotating merry go round of who I would see each week, I never felt comfortable enough broaching the subject. I should have talked to my mother or my sister more instead of letting the feelings fester. I should have found and joined a support group. But because I didn’t and because those feelings were allowed to grow, I never got a chance to really enjoy my pregnancy.

Looking back it was one of the hardest parts of my life in terms of personal growth. I stopped trying to better myself or better the world around me. I started letting my emotions rule me entirely instead of tempering my mindful decisions. And worst of all, I tried to shove them aside or let them own me instead of owning them. I was in denial about my feelings and did my best to hide them from others. Because I did that, I wasn’t able to find the courage to ask for help and no one knew enough about my situation to offer me any help. Everyone thought I was fine because fine was all I was showing anyone.

So I don’t try to diminish the feelings anymore and whenever I’m asked; I’ll tell them the truth. I am who I am today because of who I was then, for better or worse. I’m just glad I was able to get past most of these feelings by the time I became pregnant the second time. And I hope in the future I’m better still. You’ll still probably never see a deliberate bump photo from me, but I’ll strive to be happier because I have so much to be happy about.