Disclaimer: DO NOT read if you liked being pregnant. Go away. I hate you.
I’m not writing this for the hordes of people who LOVED being pregnant, or for those who have lost babies or are struggling to conceive. You have your own literature, and your own support groups. But I haven’t found a support group for me… or very little literature that resonates with how I feel. So I’m writing this for no other audience than who I perceive to be a minority or forgotten and somewhat scorned group of women, who are pregnant… AND HATE IT.
I don’t want to hear about how grateful I should be, how lucky I am, the temporary nature of my pregnancy or be reprimanded for jinxing myself with negative thoughts… but this is for the women who are sick of feeling guilty for basically hating every aspect of being pregnant (with exception of the precious little human growing inside of us which they assure me isn’t Satan’s spawn…)
I hate how goddam sore my breasts are, that even fabric touching them feels like it’s raining shards of glass on my tender skin, and shower water that stings like sleet. I hate the obnoxious itchiness of my growing nipples (seriously, how big can they possibly get?!) that are so utterly uncomfortable, only exacerbated by the fact my breasts in general are too sore to touch. I hate the ALL DAY sickness, the constant nausea and vomiting. I hate vomiting, almost as much as I hate being nauseous. I hate the feeling of lumpy food coming up, the blood in my bile, the burning throat and the brave face I have to wear every day to get to work, stay at work and somehow get home from work at the end of a ridiculously draining day. I hate that we’re expected to just troop on through the day as apparently every other woman who ever lived did (um… not helpful) and frankly, I don’t give a flying f**k that other women work full time and cope, because I’m not them and I’m not coping and this pregnancy is about me, dammit! My whole pregnancy has sadly been viewed through the omnipresent filter we shall aptly call Hyperemesis Gravidarum, that NEVER BLOODY ENDS. How hard it is to see the light when you are constantly shrouded in darkness?
I hate the gas pain (seriously, SO much pain in those first few months), the sluggish digestive system which requires me to take up to 10 laxatives a day and a weekly (minimum) enema just to even pass something. I hate the incredible joint pain- especially my poor hips, that makes turning over in bed agony and even sneezing the most horrendously painful activity (thanks also to my heightened allergies- sneezing is a more regular joy now than ever). I hate constantly having wet pants because my body feels the need to secrete the entire Pacific Ocean alongside the constant pissing myself from the sneezing or the vomiting. I hate the constant fatigue and tiredness, and the general struggle to remain functional when all I want to do is sleep until the baby comes out. It’s hard to bend, sit, squat, move and apparently, i’m not even ‘big yet’! And leg cramps… oh. my. god. The leg cramps. WTF? Agony. SCREAMING. One after the other. How is it possible to have so many calf cramps when I’ve been in bed all bloody day?!
I hate the discomfort of having to sit at my desk, the holding back vomit as I speak, suppressing every nauseous smell that wafts my way, and I especially hate the two hour drive a day for work. I have developed a genuine anxiety that someone won’t answer the phone when I ring, and fear I will silently blame them for the possibility I may fall asleep and die at the wheel. I hate the astounding food aversions that make walking into my own kitchen a nightmare, and the prospect to a trip to Woolies, my own personal horror story. You mention a word, I gag, I think of a food, I gag. I breathe, I gag.
I hate the congestion, being told by Dr’s to ‘eat more’, the ignorance of those who claim i’m ‘lucky’ because I’m still ‘so small’- the very thing the Dr’s are worried about! I hate that although there are days when the ‘fog’ lifts, just enough to not hate my life, I still feel tired, lazy and unmotivated and my God I miss my life. No need to mourn it when the baby arrives… I’m mourning it, and everything I was, now. I was never one for loads of energy, but I was motivated, I did stuff, I was busy. Now I’m just a leech. I leech off my husband and those around me as the little bub saps every little thing out of me. Oh the irony in that he wants life but has taken my own will to live some days.
And you know what else I don’t like? Feeling my baby move. I don’t like the punching, kicking and gymnastics. It’s not a nice feeling, it’s uncomfortable, and guess what? It makes me nauseous as well… no shit. I don’t like the daily battle with depression and anxiety and the constant feeling of guilt because I should be feeling more positive and grateful. I can’t. Right now, I don’t even want to exist. I feel sorry for my husband who tries his darnedest to support me, be eternally optimistic and positive and puts up with my constant emotional outbursts, jealousy for his own un-pregnant state, daily tears and breakdowns. And I sure as heck feel sorry for myself. That no one told me it could suck, that I might struggle so much.
But most of all, I hate that at some point down the track, I’m going to choose to do this all over again. And the little bugger isn’t even born yet.
Written some time in the haze that was mid 2017
*Photos taken by Melanie Kellerman Photography