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.
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.