I spent most of the first trimester of this pregnancy in kind of a dark place.
I didn’t say anything to the doctors, and that was probably stupid.
I didn’t say much here, and that was stupid, too.
I didn’t say much at home, and that was stupidest of all.
And then I started to feel better.
I thought “Oh, hey! That was just a first trimester thing! I am so better now! Hooray!”
And then, inexplicably and out of the blue, I started to feel bad again.
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Maybe it’s the time change. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s lack of quality sleep. Maybe it’s being caught up on The Vampire Diairies and only having one episode a week to occupy my time now.
Or maybe the wiring in my brain is just faulty and shorting out. Broken.
But I cried yesterday. And today. And I might cry again tomorrow.
I feel completely crushed by the weight of life and living it. By the everything of it all.
I hate that knowing I may never be free of this is a truth for my life.
That this–depression–is my life. Or at least part of it.
I hate this.
Sometimes depression is like the worst most critical horrifying abusive parent you can imagine. You. are. not. your. depression.