After taking a lengthy hiatus from writing and ignoring my blog completely, a recent bout of depression has pushed me to once again put pen to paper. Or…fingers to keys, I suppose.

It’s not every day that I feel like I don’t want to live anymore, but even one day like that is far too much. I have continued to deal with the stressors that come with family and family court battles, I have moved into a house that my husband and I built, and I am 27 weeks pregnant with a baby girl. The coronavirus pandemic has been in full swing since March of 2020, so I am rounding out a full year of working remotely. And while I initially thought that working from home full time would be wonderful, I have come to learn that in many ways it can be even more stressful than going into the office. While I save time, money, and gas avoiding the hour commute each way, I forego human interaction and new scenery to stimulate my mind. I love being home with my beloved dog, Bear, but spending every waking and sleeping moment at home, performing personal and professional tasks in the same environment day after day, is mentally draining in a way that I never could have expected. In creeps that sneaky old depression, and whether it is related to my pregnancy hormones or not, I am scared.

I am scared that I am not happy. I am scared that I do not feel connected to my growing baby. I am scared that when I see her, I will be numb. I am scared that my husband will spend his life caring for me when I don’t want to take care of myself instead of having beautiful, full life experiences. I am scared that he and our family’s excitement for our baby are the only things keeping me alive. And I am scared to tell anyone. My husband urges me to forget everything and everyone else and focus on our relationship, our baby, our home. All things that I should be elated about. But my brain doesn’t work that way. It never has.

I have talked in past blog posts about being a high-functioning depressed individual, and that is still true. I get out of bed each day, feed the dog, feed myself, work a full day, exercise, eat dinner with my husband. I clean the house and do the dishes and finish the laundry. I shower each day and take all of my medications. I arrive early to all of my doctor’s appointments. I text with friends and family and post on social media. I finish coursework by the deadlines in my journey to my master’s degree. By all accounts from the outside I am a success. But by my own account on the inside I am on autopilot. Every move I make is a struggle through dark, desolate, empty numbness. Depression isn’t all about feeling sad. Sometimes it’s about feeling nothing.

I am bringing a child into a world where there is hate and pain and abandonment. Where people you thought would always be there have disconnected. Where you express yourself one time and get accused of making things “all about” yourself. Where you are misunderstood because nobody has tried to truly know you. Where everyone else seems so free to speak their minds and share opinions while you are left censoring yourself because you need to be liked, or you need to be invisible. This is a world where people can do cruel things to you, but you cannot react cruelly back. I am going to have a daughter who will likely inherit some of what I have struggled with my entire life, and despite how hard I try to shield her from the criticism of the world I know she will feel some hurt. I have no idea how to teach her to love herself, express herself, and chase her dreams when I don’t know how to do that myself. This is the long-lasting effect of bullying. This is the consequence. I have to protect her.

As I write this, I can feel that my daughter is kicking. A gentle reminder that she is there, and she is strong. Not even born yet, she has more resolve than I do because I don’t feel like I’m here, and I don’t feel strong. Wellness advocates and self-help resources always say that you need to find happiness within yourself; that you cannot rely on another person to make you content with your life. A depressed person perceives that message as if they’re being told they have no hope. What do I do if there is no happiness within myself? What do I do if I am living solely for my husband and daughter? There are so many questions and seemingly no answers.

And I am tired.