I dreamed of being the girl in the movie scene, crying in the bathroom, holding a pregnancy test, and hugging her husband that could not wait to see how beautiful she would be carrying their first child. Never once did I think that pregnancy could be traumatic and brutal and not so hard to accept as "beautiful" and "a miracle." Pregnancy reared its ugly head, and snapped me into reality when I was 23. Postpartum depression was inevitable for someone like me, who suffered from mental illness, someone who had just spent a summer partying with the worst of them and doing things any parent would tremble at. Out of everything that was difficult, being a mother would not be. I may not have realized it when I wanted nothing but to be cool and get high and go to the bar, but being a mom was always my very first dream. But still, I was completely and utterly devastated when the doctor came into the room and said, “The rabbit died,” an old phrase used to describe something very new. I understood neither. I accepted neither. I was incapable of loving myself, I was still looking for someone to save me, I was still completely dependent on everyone else. How was I supposed to validate the existence of another being when I was still using other people to validate my own? Within ten minutes, I was expected to plan for a life and a future of someone else; I hadn’t even cared about my own for the last ten years. The fairytale scene I wanted was robbed by a man in a white coat that wrote me a prescription for prenatal vitamins instead of the painkillers I was there for originally. That doctor said, “Good luck to you,” as I left his office, and the only thing that remotely resembled a movie scene was the white-knuckle grip I had on my paperwork and the words I screamed to God as I flew down the interstate to inform a soul as lost as my own that he was (regrettably) the father of my child.