My first trimester started off fairly routinely, with lots of sleeping and some nausea.  As the weeks went on, the nausea gradually got worse and all my no-puking tricks – ginger, mint, small meals, saltines – didn’t work so well anymore.  Pretty soon I was existing on ensure, baked potatoes, and cream of wheat.  Half the time I forgot to take my prenatal vitamin, and the other half I threw it up.

I’ve never been a huge fan of leaving the house, on account of how I don’t much like other people or wearing bras, but after a highly unfortunate popcorn regurgitation in a movie theater bathroom, I stopped doing it entirely.

Late one morning around the end of August, when I was about 10 weeks along and having another conversation with the toilet, I realized I hadn’t kept a meal down in over 30 hours.  I got on the scale and was shocked to discover I had lost 10 pounds since the day I took the pregnancy test.

Making that call to the doctor was hard for me.  It was important to me to stay drug-free, and I felt like a failure that I wasn’t able to do it.   Once it was done, it was obvious it was the right thing to do.  I went from throwing up 7-8 times a day to once every 2 days.

It wasn’t a cure-all, though.  I still felt queasy and most foods were not appealing.  The isolation I was feeling kept getting worse.  I was too sick most of the time to be on twitter and facebook, and I really had nothing to say anyway.  I felt like all I did was complain, which isn’t a place I like to be in.

Since I was spending most of my time on the couch, that meant my husband was doing all the chores, errands, and cooking.  My mom cleaned the house for me.  I felt guilty about that.  I felt guilty that I wasn’t playing with the dog enough.  I worried what was going to happen to my baby if I felt this badly during my next pregnancy.

Yes, that’s right. I can make myself feel guilty about things that haven’t even happened yet.

Early fall brought with it a parade of annoying little problems, such as backed up plumbing and a car that wouldn’t start, among other things.  It felt like I was drowning.

Despite how thrilled we were about the pregnancy, I was in a funk.

Funks are not new to me.  In the past, my funks have crossed over the line into clinical depression. On two different occasions in my life, I’ve taken anti-depressants and done the counseling thing when I realized I couldn’t climb out of the funk by myself.

My funks are almost always caused by some combination of getting out of my various good self-care routines and habits and falling back into bad habits.  Once I realize it’s happening, I make some changes, start writing more,  and things tend to improve.

This time I was dealing with serious mom-guilt (my kid’s going to come out emaciated, depressed, and neurotic!), pregnancy hormones, physical illness, and minor household crises, all while taking a drug that suppressed the serotonin levels in my brain.  It felt insurmountable.

I felt uncomfortable talking about it.  I still do.  But I don’t think we women do each other any favors if we sugar coat the not so rosy stuff.  Some women don’t have an easy pregnancy, and it isn’t their fault, and it isn’t anything to be ashamed of.

Fortunately, at about week 14 I was able to start weaning myself off the medication, and I was done taking it by week 16.  I still have some queasy moments, but the worst of the morning sickness passed sometime during my 16th week.  My energy has come back, and I can participate in my favorite hobbies again.  My mood has steadily improved, and lately I’ve been feeling like myself again.

I can take care of myself, my husband, and the house again.  I can read a book, write in my journal, pay attention to a whole movie.  I can leave the house without worrying about having an unfortunate experience with a public toilet.  My face has cleared up.  I look pregnant, instead of like I’ve hit too many buffets.

Now if only my boobs would read that memo about how they’re supposed to be getting bigger.