The first thing my aunt told me when I asked her to share some of her pregnancy related stories was that she was severely depressed throughout all four of her pregnancies. She followed this statement with an even scarier one: “you should expect the same, this happens to every woman.” That never quite sat right with me. She told me this in my first trimester when I was battling intense suicidal ideation. I am today 24 weeks into my pregnancy, and I have been researching and listening to other women’s stories, they don’t all end in the same sentiment. Of course, some have gone through the wringer all the same, mood swings will always be common, but it seems that only the ones dealing with mental illness before had it “the same” as my aunt. I assume I should expect the same because anxiety and depression runs in our family, my aunt forgot to mention that.
As I talked about here, my first trimester was one of the hardest periods of my entire life. And I’ve gone through some bad shit, from surviving constant gunshots during the Arab spring to surviving sexual assault. Yet, my first trimester wins by very far, the race wasn’t even close. I was up against an unknown wall; I had no idea what was happening, and I was terrified of what I might do to myself. It got to the point where I couldn’t be left alone. A sentence I never thought I would write.
This eased significantly as I transitioned into my second trimester. Gaining my energy back allowed me to work out and reap the benefits of moving my body. I was so happy I didn’t feel miserable 24/7 that I now realize I was just hyper. I wanted to do things all the time. I wanted to go out, walk, eat out (regaining my appetite was a dream come true), go to the gym, go on vacations and staycations, anything! Looking back, I was dealing with a new strange form of anxiety.
It wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that it hit me: I was scared shitless. I didn’t - still don’t - feel prepared for motherhood. For so long, I couldn’t even utter the word. It all came to a halt when I read somewhere that if a baby were to be born at 24 weeks, they would be viable, and my fight and flight instantly kicked in. Except I didn’t know who and what to fight and where to fly to. I spent that entire day, prior to reading this information, filled with so much anger. Inexplicable anger that had no cause. As much as I knew that it was unwarranted, I couldn’t control it. It was one of the very few times in my life I couldn’t control my emotions.
As you might have figured out by now, I ended up breaking down. It wasn’t until I could barely breathe through my sobs that I realized what this anger was. It was a manifestation of my many anxieties. From the common ones: “Will I be a good mother? Will I rise to the occasion when a newborn is here to take care of?” To some scary ones such as: I’m a burden to this family and I should simply not live after I did my duty and gave birth to my child. Now, that one, as it made its way into my mind, sent chills down my spine. Silly me had thought that these dark thoughts that once loomed weeks ago were now forever gone. But they would reappear until I dealt with them. Something I didn’t want to come to terms with. I will never be able to explain the physical discomfort that comes with pregnancy, so you would understand why I didn’t want to deal with a mental one.
I decided to be proactive. I knew that hormones weren’t helping my case but if they didn’t have a root to latch onto, in this case my anxiety and depression, then they would coast through and just offer mood swings from time to time. I can handle those.
As scary as it was, considering my last therapy experience, I picked up the phone and dialed the phone number of a therapist in my area. She had great reviews, everybody was raving so I assumed I would too. Sidebar: anything that gave me anxiety before, made me furious today. I show up to my appointment and I’m made to wait 45 minutes. This, to me, was already a bad sign. It was bringing me back to my first therapist who never showed up on time. But I chose to take some deep belly breaths and wait. May I bring up the physical discomfort again? The amount of energy it took to get me to that office was indescribable. Then it was my turn. And how I wish it wasn’t. I wish I just went home beforehand.
It’s very difficult for me to open up in a professional environment now. And at some point, it feels redundant, having to share the same woo-is-me life story. However, for the sake of my mental health and that of my future child, I knew I had to do it one more time. Studies have shown that stress itself could be harmful to the fetus, and after reading this I was determined to ax it completely from my life and show up positively every day. Yes, she’s naive, people.
I sat down on her very uncomfortable couch - I thought this was another sign that I should’ve left and looking back, it probably was - and I started to tell her my anxieties about childbirth, my worries about the type of mother I wanted to be. At some point, I recall saying: “I don’t want to be the cause of my child’s own anxiety, I want to be a calming force into our home. I want to be a calm mother.” I proceeded to share that what brought me here were the frightening thoughts I’ve been contending with. She raised an eyebrow and said: “That’s not good.” As I started to feel more comfortable in talking and coming to my own realizations, to be completely honest, she kept interrupting to ask me what I like to call “medical” questions. Were you ever on antidepressants? Which ones? Is anybody else in your family under medical treatment for psychological issues? I still struggle to find the relevancy of the last question. That’s when I began understanding this wasn’t a safe space for me and what I was looking for.
I was craving a professional listening ear. I had felt like I talked my husband’s ear off, and I wanted to find another outlet. It wasn’t fair that I would dump all of this on my partner who is already dealing with his own fears, probably. I just wanted to talk and ease my own suffering in doing so.
This therapist, who seemed uninterested in what I had to say and constantly focused on her hair, proceeded to ask me what I now consider an offensive question: “I’m going to prescribe you some anti-anxiety medication. Will you take them?” I found this offensive because I had told her how important my pregnancy was to me and that even if I knew scientifically that a certain allergy medication, one that my doctor would give me for example, was safe, I still wouldn’t take it. I don’t want to take medication unless it’s absolutely necessary and that is my choice. “Is there any other way? Perhaps psychotherapy? Breathing exercises?” I pleaded.
“For people like you, there is no other way.”
My blood went suddenly cold, my hands were sweaty, and I felt myself fighting the tears that were making their way up to my eyes. I didn’t understand what that meant, people like me. I still didn’t when I took the prescription and went home to cry my heart out. She never bothered to explain. She had simply made a judgment after five minutes of listening to me talk. Was I somehow built wrong? Were people like me not supposed to have a healthy positive pregnancy? And what the hell does “people like me” mean anyway? That, friends, was one difficult day. I felt gaslighted, medically gaslighted. I had wasted energy and resources - therapy isn’t cheap - to be told that something wasn’t quite right. That basically, I’m not normal, whatever that means.
There I go again, vowing to never step foot in a therapist’s office again. But I know that one day, and soon, I will have to try one more time. Because deep inside, I believe that there’s a professional kind therapist out there for me, one that will honor and value my words and emotions and one that will guide me through these tremendous changes in my life. That time will come, just not today. I refuse to deal with yet another disappointing session, especially when I’m so vulnerable.
For now, I have hard and good days. On hard days, I remind myself that it’s okay to sit with my feelings and I honor the scary thoughts but tell them to go away because they’re unwelcome in this vessel where I also make space for my unborn child to grow. I breathe deeply and I work out. I watch Bravo and I bake. I read and I write. And I find solace in all these moments, which I try to focus on. The present moment is a precious gift, I remind myself. For now, I’m okay.
Holy moly. I'm so glad you walked away from that therapist. That was absolutely not ok, no matter the circumstances.