Woe is Me

Another weekend has passed, this one without a serious migraine attack. The week after my two trips to the ER was much better -- I really pulled back on my stress level at work, and managed to keep the headaches to a diffuse background pain, something that would spike with too much exertion (even a good laugh at lunch) but quickly returned to a barely noticeably discomfort. But last weekend the headache got worse and I had to take Vicodin, as much to relieve the pain as to quiet my mind, which was beginning to panic at the prospect of another six months of chronic pain. This past week was up and down -- some days very good, only one really bad. My neurologist thinks I experience "let down" migraines, where the pain increases as I relax and stays manageable while I am distracted by work and stress. And this weekend was worse than the work weeks have been, but I've gotten by with just some advil and heat packs and practicing my biofeedback. In keeping with my doctor's theory about "let down", in my first biofeedback session the monitors showed that my muscle tension actually INCREASED as the relaxation session went on. Basically, my body is at a high level of tension even when I think I am relaxed, and as my blood vessels dilate from relaxation, the pain increases, which increases my tension. But I am going to keep at the biofeedback -- it worked well when I tried it five years ago, in anticipation of becoming pregnant and wanting a non-drug way to manage headaches, and I think once I become proficient at it again, I'll see the headaches improve.

One of the greatest stresses for me is simply the fact of being pregnant. I am of course overjoyed that I am finally on my way to having my second child. Anything I have to go through is worth knowing that Henry will have a sibling, that our little circle will feel complete, that I have another chance to work on being a mother, the greatest and most unexpectedly fuflfilling role of my life. But the honest truth is -- and I have found that most people look at me with bewilderment and some degree of judgment when I say this, so it takes courage for me to write it openly now -- I find pregnancy alienating, lonely, and filled with anxiety. In some sense, this is easier to handle with the second pregnancy, because I knew this time to expect it, and because I know in my gut, and not just in my head, how worthwhile it is in the end. On the other hand, during my first pregnancy, I kept thinking that each day maybe I would start to feel that glow and joy and happiness that other women seem to feel. This time, I don't have that hope, no matter how false it may be. And realism is hardly a recipe for happiness.

It is just so hard for me to not feel like myself for so long. Pregnancy makes me emotional, as it does all women, but I've spent years mastering my emotions, not so that I don't feel them, but so that I don't let them buffet me about. But when I am pregnant, it feels like I am on a tossed sea, and the only way to keep from going overboard is to shut down. In order to avoid being consumed by sadness when it comes -- crying is a surefire trigger for a migraine -- I also avoid feeling great joy. I basically step back from my emotions and feel I cannot trust them. If I gave in to them, I would squabble with Matthew over completely insignificant things, would snap at Henry undeservedly, and would worry and fret about things I can't control. But without experiencing the panoply of emotions, I feel empty and like a stranger to myself. This, combined with the fact that I simply can't do many of the things that seem to keep me on calm seas normally, like enjoying a daily glass of red wine, taking Dinah for a long, hard walk, getting us all out of the house for music and art events on the weekends, cleaning the house vigorously and completely, gets me terribly depressed. And in this period between the initial joy of discovering I am finally pregnant, and the thrill of feeling the baby move, I am so grateful for the distraction that Henry provides -- I can never wallow long in his presence. And Matthew is so patient with me, never pressuring me to feel other than I am feeling, and massaging me every day to keep the tension at bay.

But I just feel like a failure at this part of being a mother. I feel guilty that I don't feel joyous. I feel guilty that I can't seem to keep up with social obligations the way I should. And I feel that most people both would rather not hear about a pregnant woman who's not happy, and can't help but judge me if I tell them the truth. So I find myself feeling like a constant disappointment, to myself, and to others. Don't I know how lucky I am? Don't I realize how special and wonderful this time is? Yes, and yes, and hence my stress.