A Different Kind Of Depression

The test results weren't concise. I might have not followed the instructions strictly or I was simply destined to fail a process that consists urinating on a stick but the words were there: "You might be pregnant. Repeat the process". What do you mean I might be pregnant? Did I just kind of pass the test? Am I going to have to repeat what I have just done for the first time - and hated?

I did it again - Negative! I should have been feeling happy. Being in my 20's, in a two-year kind-of-unstable relationship, working 10–12 hours shifts as a waitress, trying to make it to college, living month to month because I was attracted by consumerism and suffering from severe bipolar disorder; I just couldn't be a child progenitor. When I was younger, I would occasionally think about kids. I grew up surrounded by them. My family was big and held a strong relationship. I've seen my cousins having children like it was a virus. I would babysit them occasionally and every weekend we would have a family gathering where, by entering the room, 7 to 10 little persons would run to me with the most welcoming arms and happily yell my name. It was in my plans to one day conceive the human beings that would do the same to somebody else. However, with the years passing, those plans seemed to vanish in the words "I'll be the cool aunt" that I'd tell my friends.

Now, it was the first time that it really scared me. So why wasn't I feeling relieved? I guess something in me always knew…

I moved on with my life, believing everything was alright. It has been some time since I last had my period. I wasn't sure of how long. I didn't keep track of it. I knew my cycle was irregular. There were months where it would come twice and some other months it would just refuse to leave my body. This time was different, though. I was anxiously waiting for the monthly red-tainted nightmare, but nothing in sight.

My work would fill up my days, so I've quite lost the notion of time. I wasn't aware that it's been so long until I visited the hospital for abortion in July. I live in a country with free healthcare so you can imagine how you are treated in public hospitals. I get to the reception and they inform me to go to the emergency room. After a 90 minute wait, I get called and for the second time in that hospital, I get yelled at because it's not an emergency and I shouldn't be there. I shouldn't be in the hospital at all without my GP's request, apparently. I tried to explain that I was sent there by their receptionist but she didn't care - I even highly doubt she was listening as she gives me the bad news: "It's too late for abortion anyway."

I'd always justify my delay in the hospital with anxiety. Seriously, it seemed to worsen around doctors. But the undeniable truth is I was irresponsible. I was very sexually active for two years and didn't use protection. My contraceptive method was my boyfriend's timing. It wasn't a lack of information; I knew my risks but still relied on luck and rarely on the plan B pill. Just irresponsible.

At this point, I still didn't have any real proof of pregnancy other than an interrupted menstrual cycle and tender breasts. The time calculation done by that doctor was based on questions. It was time to go to my GP. I hated her. She never showed any care for me as a patient. She was very dismissive and somehow judgmental, having failed to diagnose me several times. Every appointment I'd have with her would end up on nervousness, no matter what kind of news I would get.

For emergent appointments, I had to call the health center in the morning and for non-emergent ones, it would take up to 3 months until I could get a spot. Time went by after several call attempts (around twenty unanswered calls a day, to be more specific). I was a workaholic and getting home at five in the morning, I could never wake up before I'd have to go to work.

In early September, I finally decided to make an appearance at the center. At the reception, they said I had to call like expected, but I firmly responded that I needed an appointment that day and they would have to do it.

I had barely stepped the GP's office and she was quick to roll her eyes and ask "What is so important that it had to be today?". My mood went from anxious to mad in five seconds. I proceeded to explain that I thought that I was pregnant, despite the fact that the pregnancy test I had realized was negative. For the monologue that came afterward, I could only assume that between those lines, I said something like "Please, be a bitch!". She asked me: "What now? What are you going to do with your life? How can you just go and get pregnant?" Her pep talk was more extensive, but I chose to forget most of the words. Now, given the situation, what she said seems reasonable, right? Except that she didn't know three aspects and didn't care to ask: The last time I had been menstruated, the abortion attempt and the relationship that I held for two years. Her judgment was based solely on my age. She assumed I was sleeping around and didn't question how I felt about having a baby.

I went home in tears: full-on anxiety mode. This is exactly what my friends and family are going to think. This is the kind of judgment I will suffer throughout what should be exciting months.

On that same day, I did a blood pregnancy test and it came back positive, as expected.

I had been living in a world where I had some resolvable problem instead of being pregnant before this positive result and after it, I just hoped for the worst: a miscarriage. A painful miscarriage, because other than nothing, I deserved pain.

For the longest, I kept this to myself. My boyfriend knew and was extremely supportive of everything. I really wanted all of it to be a bad dream and not telling anybody seemed the best escape from reality.

Eventually, I gained weight. For my family and friends, this meant I was just oscillating. I've always been overweight, but last year I finally reached the healthy scale numbers and the flat stomach I always wanted. So, at work, which I just started a year ago, the suspicion set in. The comments revolved around how much I was eating and the obvious gain weight. Even though there was no sign of a bump, people would just assume I was pregnant. It was getting into my head and that's when I decided to take a two-week break from work.

My boyfriend went to visit his family a month ago and what better solution to run from this reality than traveling?

As the plane took off, the happiness neurotransmitters started working. For two weeks, I'd be pregnancy-free. But that momentary happiness ended on the night of my arrival. My boyfriend's family started talking about the baby. I have no reason to be ashamed, they'd say, and question what did I expect the sex to be. I got uncomfortable with that but I toughed it up and went through it. The matter would come up occasionally but it seemed alright.

Now, the real agony hit me this one time I was chatting with his grandma. She asked the usual questions as she had just found out that she would have her first great-grandchild. But then she took it further "Are your parents happy about this?".

I have never seen this woman before in my life and the conviction in her words was like she had met my parents along her way.

I excused myself from the conversation and started to cry compulsively. I wasn't expecting this reaction, but I certainly know why it was happening.

My parents were very comprehensive unless I was in the picture. They weren't bad parents at all… Just very strict. So, they wanted my life to go a certain way: College, a career, get a house with my partner and then, kids. I know this was out of worry, but all the pressure troubled me. And their views on life impeded them from learning about their mentally ill daughter.

I have skipped some steps. I was working a temporary job which never pleased them, but I had to work; I haven't applied to college yet and even tho my boyfriend and I lived together, we were in my parents' house (they moved back to their country when I was about 15). We didn't have any stability whatsoever. And there I am, expecting. How am I going to tell them that I am having a baby?

From that grandma moment forward, I began to go down a hill in light speed. It'd be the hardest thing to get up and do the habitual morning tasks. I was on this beautiful island, like the ones you see in music videos, and I just didn't have the strength to enjoy it. I'd shed depressive tears because I wanted to go home. But did I really?

My flight back was nothing like any other previous flights. I usually love to get on a plane, but this time, all I wanted was this plane to crash. I wish somehow it would only finish my life, without affecting the other people. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to go back to the island. I wanted the time to stop and fall into nonexistence.

It was time to face this pregnancy. It was time to take care of this baby. It was time to adjust to this new reality. And so, I worked for it. Yet, every night I'd cry myself to sleep thinking on how I just got pregnant from a manic episode; thinking on how I'd ruined my already fucked up life; thinking on how I didn't have the means to walk my way to the end of everything; knowing that I was going to conceive a little human in a chaotic, mean world; among other things.

I still hid it from my family for a very long time. I'd submerge into a pool of anxiety every time the thought of telling my parents would pop up in my mind. Unlike what everyone thinks, I wasn't afraid to tell. I just didn't want to be more of a disappointment than I already was in their eyes. I never shared that with them.

I ended up quitting my job. I asked my doctor for a leave, but she didn't give it to me. I would tell her that it was a heavy job, I'd spend hours without eating and it was so hard not to smoke with all the stress. This was all true, but it wasn't the real reason. The environment of constant judgment was suffocating.

I was severely depressed and, like before, I didn't want to admit it. Without a job, I'd spend my days at home in a vicious cycle: crying, binge-eating, and sleeping. I was basically feeding the depression that's always been a part of me. A great amount of anxiety would inject into my blood whenever I had to leave the house. I couldn't walk to the supermarket without shedding tears of despair. I was the concept of suicide ideation; very unhealthy and helpless. 

I never found the courage to tell my GP, my family, or my friends that I was feeling the blues. I felt myself going crazy because I couldn't speak my agony out. The problem is that you just know everyone is going to assume you'll be an unfit mother. I didn't want people thinking that of me. I didn't want people thinking of me. I didn't want attention. I didn't want the fake "Congratulations!", the baby gifts, the belly touches, the excitement of others that I wasn't feeling…

I've always been depressed, I've always lived subjected to silent judgment but this was a whole other reality for me. This time, I wasn't able to ignore the urge to end it all. This time it felt like hell.

Really. All I wanted was to not be alive.

Thankfully, I was able to overcome the thoughts of suicide. I finally felt something other than pain.

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The stigma around antenatal depression has to come to an end. It's hard to look for help when you feel like your own psychiatrist will whisper judgemental tones or when you're actually afraid social services will be called as the baby is born. I've never even heard of antenatal depression before. People just ignore it. It often remains untreated, leading to post-partum depression.

I read stories of expecting mothers who weren't strong enough to fight their ill minds and actually tried to kill themselves. All because they couldn't deal with the pressure they were submitted throughout those months.

The people who suffer from it can't let themselves get stuck in such a noxious situation, especially in a vulnerable time of their lives.

Let them speak their truth out.