Depressed And Trying For A Baby
Getting pregnant wasn’t a race against time, it was a race against mind.
Content warning: discussion of suicidal ideation
Throughout my teens I was adamant I didn’t want children. I thought they were annoying, sticky money pits who had no business being near me. I was a sad and corny teen. Now, I’m 30. I’m still sad, but I’m not broke, and I have a husband. My feelings on the child situation have changed. I’m more open to it now. I think it was a combination of seeing other people with kids and, as I’ve gotten older, having more love to give — or something. I didn’t have the most stable childhood (or adulthood, for that matter), but I’m now in a position where I could give a kid a good and not-at-all toxic upbringing. I’m not desperate to have a baby — not that there’s anything wrong with that — but I’d love to try.
I traipsed off to therapy, excited to discuss starting a family. I’d only talked about it with my husband, and my therapist would be the only other person who’d know. Lucky her! I readied myself for all her joy and delight. I’d seen it before with my friends. They’d start with a goofy grin on their face and say something like, “We’ve stopped using birth control.” This would be followed by gasps and tiny squeals of glee: “You’re trying for a baby! We’re so happy for you!”
