As I sit and cry for what seems like hours, I’ve finally admitted that perhaps I’ve got pregnancy depression.
I can deal with anxiety, least I can still feel like I’m functioning, but this is horrendous.
I’ve hid it well. My smile hides what’s really underneath. I’m trying to carry on as normal. But it seems that no matter what I put on the outside – inside I’m screaming.
I’m struggling to get my get up and go. I don’t want to cook, I don’t want to go to work. I’m struggling to make small talk with people. I’m craving for sleep. Always tired. My morning sickness is still plaguing me and even the smallest of car journeys is making me ill. So then my diet is appalling due to me craving carbs to make me feel better.
My concentration is poor and I’m struggling to focus on conversation’s. Anxiety seems to somewhat taken a back seat. This feeling has crept up on me as my pregnancy has progressed. I’m scared. Scared of losing my shit, scared of losing me. I’m scared that this feeling is going to plagued for the rest of my pregnancy.
I cry at the silliest things. The smallest of things set me of. Hormones? Maybe. But I’m better then this. I know I am. I’m stronger than this. I’m the kinda girl that can live in my own company happy. I make everyday count. Not now.
I should be happy. I’ve no real worries. I’ve got two beautiful children, I’m lucky enough to be having one more. I’ve got a nice job, relationship is good.
Something silly set me of today. To silly to even write it down. But it’s opened the flood gates. I’m ashamed of myself. Ashamed of what I’m becoming. Ashamed of the mental health that I fear will never leave me.
So today I finally admitted defeat. I’ve finally held my hands up and said enough is enough and I’ve booked the doctors.
My children don’t deserve this, my unborn baby doesn’t. Yet I’m scared. Scared of this sadness.
I hope today is the first step. I hope I can get my happiness back. Get me back.