This is my first blog post, and I've been procrastinating over it. I knew it would be personal, I knew it would be honest, but I didn't know how to write it, and I didn't really want to.
Then last night, after an uneventful phone call to my dad, I found myself alone. Friday night, pregnant, single, lonely and sad. I started to cry. At first, it was just a few tears, but they soon graduated into a huge outburst of grief, and it lasted until I ran out of energy. I nestled down on my friends' couch with her cat, and drifted to sleep, still broken but somewhat relieved of the fear of constantly reliving my memories.
Depression is so unbelievably common in our society, that I can't believe how isolating it is; how lonely it is to be trapped in that dark place, surrounded by people feeling the same way, yet somehow painfully removed from them and the rest of the 'normal' people altogether.
After three months of grieving and negotiating with my broken heart for a man who could never return the love I had for him, I still wait for the morning when I wake up and accept that I'm pregnant and anticipating the best thing in my life, while the person I thought I'd be sharing that with is now sharing his life with someone else 5000kms away.
I stand strong in my positive thoughts that a new day will bring with it a new appreciation of a new life; that all my affirmations and creative distractions are dissolving the sadness and rejection and disappointment that has plagued my heart. Most of the time, while it's challenging, it's relatively easy to uphold that hope. At other times, it creeps up on me with a sack brimming with memories, a lot of desperate sobbing and an endless pile of soggy tissues.
And then I feel a little kick from within.
A nudge from my little jellybean ^_^
It's as though she's reminding me that now there are two of us; of how far we've come together, that a few months ago six out of seven days were blitzed by memories, sobbing and soggy tissues. Back then, I could hardly pull myself up off the floor or think a thought that wasn't ex-related. I didn't believe there could possibly be happiness and fulfillment ahead of me, and that my future offered little more than a lifetime of discontent.
As of today, I am officially in my third trimester. There are only 90 days until my due date. Morning and night I can lie down and watch my belly wriggle. I can dream about the first time I see her eyes, or the first time I hear her laugh. I have a little collection of tiny clothes that I fold, unfold and fold again, imagine her little body filling the grow-suits. I have a rainbow collection of cloth nappies under my bed, and the ingredients for my mum's tried and tested home recipe for nappy soak.
There are some shitty parts to this equation, granted. But all that is pretty meaningless when I consider the realities. If I've come this far in three months, how far can I go in another three months? Six months? A year?
My future is so unknown and unpredictable, and that's just the way I like it. I have a lifetime of creating, traveling, learning, teaching, writing and music ahead of me, and I get to share it all with my baby girl.
Even though it's too late for 'what ifs', they still linger, and they will for a while. There will still be times when the soggy tissues pile up uncontrollably and I wake up feeling sad and at a loss. But accepting that reality, well, the sooner the better. Those days will only decrease in frequency; I can only go further forward. There's no room for me to go backwards.
I'm on an adventure. Life is awesome.