Pregnant and medicated. What’s wrong with you?!

I’ve had no time to prepare anything for my students, but I did finally learn how to balance equations, so that was helpful. Not for Wednesday’s students, but today went alright. And tomorrow will be better. Because tomorrow is always better. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Tomorrow I start medication again. Every person on the street that overhears me speak has some sort of opinion about psych meds while pregnant and I always get to hear them. Most of the time they tell me I’m a horrible person for even considering harming my baby like that.

Don’t you know that is a harmless, sinless, pure life inside of you? How could you even THINK of doing such a thing to that precious life?!

The answer I want to give, that is obviously inappropriate in conversations with strangers, is If I’m hallucinating and believe I need to rid myself of the parasite that is sucking the life force out of me how does THAT affect your precious, harmless, sinless, pure alien life force you believe is so vital that I must go without healthcare?

But that makes people angry and uncomfortable so I refrain from being a complete jackass. Normally I nod my head politely and thank them for their contribution to a stranger’s life and continue about my day. Until the end of the day arrives I can usually keep it all in check. The real problem happens when I get home and reflect on my day. Then I think about my carefully weighed consideration of my health over the last 30 years, and my decision to take medication listed below a class B for pregnancy, and all the danger poor beastly is in already, and I feel like I’m a horrible person. I cry over the heartbreak this decision is causing. I cry over the misunderstanding and the stigma attached to mental illness normally, compounded by the tsk tsks of should you even consider parenthood in your condition?

It’s a lot to handle. Too much to handle. In fact, the hallucinations did lead me to believe for a short time last week that I should abort the baby. If I can’t get treatment, what the hell am I doing in the first place? Fortunately, when I expressed that thought in the ER I did get help. I got admitted, and I didn’t even have to go to the psych ward, I got to be in a cushy bed with a sitter in the OB wing. Much more pleasant surroundings.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter how great your support system is, the disease reminds you that it’s still stronger. At least for the moment.

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