A day in the life of someone who's 12 weeks, 3 days pregnant.

Update! I ate the sandwich. Aren't you just so totally interested? And in the process of reheating it in the oven to avoid listeriosis, I burned the hell out of my fingers and burned the bread beyond recognition. But I still ate it.

I can't get a massage today, because they're scared that if they touch my foot I just might pop a fetus out, oh, 28 weeks early, or I might spontaneously combust and cover them in contagious pregnancy-juices that mean that they will now be the ones who have to throw up everyday and get fat and eat every hour and take care of a human.

I was supposed to have lunch with someone, but that would mean I would have to A) take a shower right now, and B) drive half an hour to Murfreesboro. My couch is just really comfy. And I have to fall back asleep by at least six tonight so I can function at work tonight at 12 AM.

I already had 2 donuts when I woke up 2 hours ago.

And I have a leftover turkey, brie and apple sandwich (I'm gonna heat it up! and the brie is pasteurized! Don't throw things at me).

But, alas, it's only 9:30 in the morning. That's not an acceptable hour to eat brie, is it?

And this is the main predicament of my day. I'll probably be giving in within the next 10 minutes. After that, maybe--just maybe--I'll shower.

Get ready for a soul-searching "my life sucks and now consists of scheduling brie and putting off showers and canceling lunches and I'm so alone and I'm sitting here in my fiance's shirt who's 6 foot 2 and 200 lbs and I'm 5 foot 1 and 100 pounds and it's the same thing I put on when I got home from work YESTERDAY morning and I'm already letting myself go" post--coming soon.

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Melanie Blocker-Stokes and worrying yourself into a depression.

Melanie Blocker-Stokes had just given birth a month ago.

So she stopped sleeping. She stopped eating. She convinced herself that she was inadequate, that she had already failed as a mother, and that everyone else thought so, too.

Blocker-Stockes was hospitalized repeatedly for postpartum psychosis over the next few months, given a potent cocktail of antipsychotic, antianxiety and antidepressant drugs, even treated with electroshock therapy.

When her daughter turned 3 and a half months old, Blocker-Stokes leaped to her death from the 12th story of a Chicago hotel. She'd had enough.

I have no frame of reference for such a depression. I don't know--yet--what it feels like to have the immense pressure of being a mother thrown at you; I only know the immense pressure of the prospect. But I know that something has sent me on a not-so-fun roller coaster thus far, and I don't really know what to do about it.

At first, I was legitimately depressed. I cried every hour on the hour, never sure how to explain to my fiancé what I was feeling. I did (and still have) withdrawn from friends.

I just don't know how to publicly express what's going on in my head without sounding incredibly selfish and ungrateful--not to mention like a future horrible mother who's growing baby can't even seem to snap her out of it.

In the week after the big fat positive, Jason and I tried to maintain some level of normalcy. The first time we went out to eat post-baby apocalypse, it only took ten minutes until I was struggling to hold back tears.

It took Jason telling me that I was "acting like he gave me cancer" for it to really hit me. I was acting like a baby and certainly not like someone who was confident about having a child.

I blame the hormones. And fear. Crazy, intense fear. Of being a mother, of giving up the life I'm used to, of being looked at as accomplishing nothing more than baby-making. Complete fear of the unknown.

I hadn't told my parents or friends yet, and a part of me felt like a 16 year old on the verge of confessing that she'd just thrown her life away.

I--luckily--have never had real problems with mental health.

When I was about 15, I was hospitalized for two weeks because of a Crohn's flare up. They sent a psychiatrist up to see me. And, you know what? I was 15. I was bored. I was starving. The rest of my friends were giggling about boys and my face becoming more and more chipmunk-like with each new Prednisone prescription. I was tired of being sick. I was depressed.

But that man walked into my room, and I remember turning the smile on. Chatting him up like the cheeriest kid in a hospital bed ever. There's nothing wrong with me! I was telling him. Look how amazingly normal I am! And it worked. In fact, I remember him telling me that I was the happiest kid with a chronic illness he'd ever met. I wore that title like a badge of honor.

And then he left the room, and I went back to being pissed off because of how unlucky I was to be in the hospital on a feeding tube while the rest of the world ate whatever they wanted and did whatever they pleased.

I've gotten a lot better about this whole having-a-baby thing. In fact, now, I'm downright excited. But the nagging depression hasn't completely gone away.

Here's hoping it doesn't come back Brooke Shields-style.

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Being 8 weeks pregnant, or what it feels like to have vindictive aliens take over your body.

7 weeks, 5 days.

Initially I thought I'd hit the first-ultrasound jackpot. Look at it resting there, its little feet kicking up a storm, playing soccer with some traveling piece of my insides! But, alas, the head--that's the yok sake. The feet--that's the head.

It already looks so much like us. Aw. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and that's such a nice substitute for the liquor I'm not drinking.

So, this whole being pregnant thing? It kinda sucks. I'm hoping and praying to Demeter or whichever fertility god or goddess actually gives a shit to make this sickness go away. Soon.

I'm so tired that the prospect of working a twelve hour shift overnight tonight has made me cry already today. Twice.

I'm so emotional that I teared up moments ago when I had to pick up my dog's lovely, disgusting brown goop off the floor and then clean his poor, inflamed butt.

And all these years, I thought living with Crohn's Disease just might prepare me for this pregnancy battle one day. I can throw up with the best of them. I can endure stomach pain so bad it would bring a grown man to his knees without batting an eyelash.

Except, with pregnancy, throwing up doesn't make the evil queasiness go away. It. Never. Sleeps.

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