Procreate (Part 3)
The remaining months of my pregnancy were spent trying to stay comfortable. The weight I was not gaining initially piled on with a vengeance and I ached. I began re-visiting the websites I abandoned and re-reading my books. I needed to prepare for the impending birth. Once again inundated with knowledge, I planned. Our hospital tote bag was ready; all of the items on the list ticked off (I could never understand why I would need lipstick at the hospital but it was on the list). Baby items piled in our apartment. I wanted a natural birth, I wanted to be in control and allow my instinct to guide me. I completed my birth plan like a diligent student. I was ready.
Thirty-six hours of back labour and an epidural that did not work resulted in an emergency forceps delivery. Control, yeah. But lovely and healthy was my daughter. I was ecstatic.
I suffered silently. Post-partum depression was a condition I was familiar with from all of my research and from my pre-natal classes. During the first few months with my baby, I did not for one minute acknowledge that I might be suffering. Maybe I believed it was unreal. Perhaps I even thought that mothers who claimed to have post-partum depression were simply evading their new responsibility. I don’t know, but at that time, admitting I was hurting would have been like admitting I sucked at being a mom.
We lived in a one-bedroom apartment and the winter days were endless. Sleep-deprived and isolated, I existed moment to moment, responding to the needs of my child. My husband encouraged me to do things, to write or exercise or call friends. He understood my pain because he, too, was exhausted and his dedication to us was relentless.
When the darkness that was Winter with a newborn turned into Spring, things got a little better. I cried less and I began to explore the world outside the four walls, which had become my sanctuary. Quietly, we strolled. I observed that, as a new mother, I immediately became less interesting to a large, particularly male segment of the population. This revelation was both comforting and alarming as the doubt made it’s way back into my life.
My body was forever changed. Although drastically imperfect before baby, I (and others) quite enjoyed my curves. Or, perhaps that is only how I choose to re-create the past. Regardless, six months after giving birth, I was disproportioned and I did not welcome my maternal figure. Clad in baggy jeans and nursing t-shirts, I cursed thin women with thin arms and normal-sized breasts. I became bitter in my resentment and jealousy filled me like a virus. I begged my partner for confirmation and demanded constant re-assurance that I was still attractive. At twenty-six, I truly felt washed up and unsightly. The very notion of style or grace or sexuality was lost to me.
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