Pregnancy is the closest equivalent to a baptism/rebirth I have ever experienced. You spend your life in this daze and suddenly you just – are. You are a parent. The narrow worries you had are so minuscule now. Your goals, while the same, have more meaning. They have purpose because they aren’t only for you now. You are less scared than you thought you’d be, because being strong for them is the easiest task given.
At many points in my life I felt alone. I never thought I would find anyone who would understand, or want to understand me. I had people around me who cared about me, but were absent in the ways that were truly needed. I struggled with depression and anxiety for years before being diagnosed, and my existence itself felt like a burden to carry. As though I was asking too much from the people around me by simply being.
When you are in a headspace such as that it is hard to get out. For me it was difficult to grow past because the only way to get out was taking the leap to ask for help. And to know why you were asking for help. How could I ask someone to help me when I didn’t know what I needed help with?
I remember as that emptiness grew I withdrew myself from everyone around me. I didn’t speak to those I loved dearly. I felt myself slipping and time became a concept I didn’t think I could handle. I kept myself away to protect those around me from whatever it was happening within me. I was called selfish and rude for how I had become.
The feeling of guilt and shame for who I was engulfed me. I remember the walls that held those thoughts within them. I remember the tree swing in the back yard and how the doors were painted. I analyzed every impact the bristles made on their final coat on the door with the broken lock. It felt like a lifetime in those moments, but it wasn’t. Even now I can go back to them when I smell a certain fragrance or the temperature outside sits a certain way. I can still look back on my life and appreciate the things I grew from. Even the less enjoyable parts can be respected. The things left behind and lost, though not faded from memory, can be forgiven, but not enabled.
I told my husband once that since meeting him life had become more enjoyable. Everything I had dwelled on, with him by my side, felt more digestible. It’s like when you’re happy and a sad song comes on the radio. You sing the song because you know the words, but you can’t relate to them anymore. Before him my entire life felt as displaced as my concrete handprints stuck at scattered houses. Finding my forever home with him and watching each other become parents turns those scattered bits into stepping stones for who I was always going to be. As heavy as the steps felt at times, they were always bringing me here.
When my son was born the selfish, angry person I was told I was only had time to ask if her son was crying – if he was OK. Bleeding on a table after 14 hours of excruciating pain and nothing else mattered more. Somehow the “you’ll understand when you’re a parent” they threw at me for years on end flashed in my mind. I thought I would understand. I truly hoped I would. Though the second I saw my son’s face, I understood them even less.
