When I was pregnant with my son, I wanted to know what childbirth was going to feel like. Giving birth was no longer some event in the future but was close enough that I had an idea of when it would happen. Not before my due date, my mother had warned. Boys don’t want to move out. She could tell me he would be late but she couldn’t articulate what it would feel like. She wasn’t the only one who couldn’t tell me. I was told story after story of how each baby was born, but whether it was a problem with memory or not having the words, no one could really describe the pain.
My mom told me how when it would start again, the contractions would begin, and it would all come flooding back to her. She would think, oh this. I remember this. Not this again. Why did I put myself through this again?
You forget after they place the baby in your arms. If you remembered clearly what it was like after it happened, maybe a lot of women would not have more than one child.
When my sister was preparing to have her first baby and asked me what childbirth would be like, I joined the army of women who could not describe it. When it comes to pain, I too have a faulty memory.
In November, I was hit with depression. It was a direct hit, a low I hadn’t felt in a long time. For four months, I struggled. I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. Every day felt like wading through waist high water. I couldn’t get anywhere. I didn’t enjoy doing anything. It effected the type of mother and wife I was. Finally, I went to a therapist. I considered anti-depressants. I didn’t need to be blissfully happy all of the time. I just wanted to feel something other than numb, heavy and slow. I needed a boost out of bed that could stay with me all day. I wondered at times if I would ever be okay again.
Then March came, bringing with it a few days of warmth and in the evening an extra hour of sunlight. The depression that had been a constant companion for winter began to slip away. And now, as I’m returned back to a closer version of myself, I find I am unable to articulate what I had been feeling. Did I actually have a hard time getting out of bed? Did I ache from it, as if sadness was in my bones and radiated pain outward from it? Did I really find no joy in what I used to love doing? Who was I? After I had my son, I wondered if contractions were that painful or was I simply unable to deal with any pain at all. Now that the depression is fading, I wonder, was this seasonal affective disorder (SAD) or was I merely, lazy, tired and a touch melodramatic. My therapist assures me this isn’t the case.
I’m not sorry my sadness has faded once more. Of course I’m not. I don’t like feeling so dependent on the season but my therapist has recommended being prepared for next winter, whether with lights or with medication so I don’t have to spend four months in misery.
If and when SAD strikes again, I imagine it will be like remembering labor. I will think, Ah yes, I remember this pain. Not this again. And I hope I remember to do what I can to not put myself through that again.