I woke up this morning wondering if my wordpress account was still active.
My last post was 10/31/07. How sad that I became too “busy” to write on? What lies I tell myself.
Its like a diary you kind of forgot about, then one day you stumble across its dusty rose hardcover. You wish you had written more, but in fact you documented so little the binding still creaks a little from never been properly broken in with secrets and heartbreaks. In my grown up way, I thought of this blog in the same way, not for tears or confessions, but for my sanity. I remembered that little key like the one I used to hide in my jewelry box, and I searched through my yahoo account to retrieve my password .
So if this is the key to my sanity, regardless of the fact that people view this or not, it is the least I can do for myself, a self who in the last eight weeks has been transformed into a hormonal monster with a blueberry sized entity sucking out life from within my uterine walls. Ever ounce of energy has been replaced with venom that seeps out of my tongue any time someone makes the mistake of asking me - well - anything. Pregnancy cannot be described. I feel unhuman, and having not even seen the baby through the eyes of technology, I am yet to have a visual of this tiny life. I like to think its all relative in terms that the more drained and exhausted I am, the stronger and healthier “it” is. With the way I feel I fully expect to birth a child already wearing a superhero’s cape and ready to take on the woes of the world just after his/her first breath.
I tell myself I am not alone and that many women feel this way (particularly with the first??) but I can’t imagine so many people living day to day life at this level of insanity. Its not normal. I tell myself it will get better – after all, it is very early on. Then there are those women who say right to my face that it doesn’t get better; the next seven months will seem to last forever. I want to punch them. And then I want to cry.
I find out this Thursday if it has heartbeat – I’m hoping I will feel like I have a heart again after that. I also get to find out how long my suffering will last the due date. I mean, !!!!
In the last three days I’ve been making a real effort to be nice and exert some energy in places other than my rage and vocal cords. Laundry is done and the garage is clean, quite frankly because I had no idea the next time I could summon the strength to even fold a pair of socks. I feel good about carpets that have been vaccummed for the first time in weeks, and I allow myself to sleep and I’m trying to not feel guilty about my naps or my moods.
After all, I get all the changes immediately. Eric gets nine months before he is physically affected by this life change. At least he gets to deal with my unpredictable personality changes/borderline schizophrenia with a drink in his hand. I’m one hell of a cocktail myself with no alcohol, no nicotine, extremely limited amounts of caffeine untastefully blended with a pitcher full of hormones. I’m a walking set of boobs, which would be nice if they didn’t hurt to touch, grab, sleep on, etc., my pants are already getting snug which the baby books say is probably gas. Basically I’m a cranky moody nauseated gaseous beast with a really great, albeit painful, rack, and I still have roughly 220 days to go???
All I can do is yell about nonsensical things, cry at stupid things (more often I just yell), and come home from the store after spending $100+ with only smoked oysters, pickles, pickled okra, mustard, and a fridge full of pudding.
And I’m counting on this blog to save my sanity.
