Anxiety and depression are thieves. They steal my confidence, my will to keep going. They tell me that no one cares what I have to say, that I’m not enough, that I’m stupid. They tell me my ambitions and goals are unreachable, that I should just stop trying.
I feel like a big fat hypocrite for even writing this. At the moment, I could use about six additional hours of sleep, a hot shower, haircut, pedicure, and maybe just a moment or two to myself without a baby grabbing at my chest, a husband asking me a billion questions I don't have the answers to, or a dog begging me for my lunch.
The whole way there I told him, "They're going to tell me I peed myself and send me home. Stop freaking out." Although I was starting to feel light contractions in the car, I was still in denial. Once we got there and registered, I could feel the contractions getting stronger. Dallas was helping me change into a hospital gown when the rest of my water broke all over the bathroom. This time I was sure that I wasn't peeing myself. I looked at him and the nurse and finally admitted, "okay...maybe I'm in labor."