Maybe the first trimester is all about whining. Maybe I’m a weak woman. But this past week, week 10, of pregnancy has been the hardest so far for me– and I’ve been absolutely miserable, and useless, and incredibly thankful that at least I had the week off to languish in agony without anyone counting on me to do something or to get something accomplished.
I am hoping this rising week will be better, but who knows– so far, day to day, it seems to get worse. The gross feeling in the pit of my stomach, the nausea despite drugs and random vomiting that will strike. Heartburn– something I’ve never had in my life. The food intolerances. The horrible attitude. And the exhaustion. I just want to live in a cave alone with some pillows and some ice water and not have to talk to or interact with anyone.
My mother in law told me she had no morning sickness, no problems, like the easiest pregnancy ever with her son, my husband. While I should have been glad for her I got the insane desire to claw her eyes out. The people who say “oh, it was so easy! I felt great! I was glowing and happy and wonderful!” are assholes to me. I despise their good fortune. I want to beat them up, but honestly I’d be too tired to beat anyone up. I’m too tired to walk downstairs and get the clean laundry. What’s the point, I can’t fit into any of my clothes anyway. Everything is tight and constricting and gross. It’s miserable.
People say you should cherish this time and hold it close to your heart, and while I love that each moment I get closer to the day I get to see our baby, I’m honestly just yearning for the next step, the next experience, the day I feel like living again–where every scent doesn’t make me queasy and that random things people say don’t set me off into a blind rage.
Yeah. It’s been a hard week.