Terror

Today is the first day of my third trimester.

Terrifying! Completely terrifying! Everything’s going well, everyone’s relatively healthy, I’m relatively comfortable, I’m learning as much as I can about labor and childbirth … but there are just no preparative measures that can calm the terror.

Yesterday, while still on vacation, I got sick in the morning. Pain and nausea and difficulty breathing. Before I’d recovered, I foolishly traveled south to a family home in Beaver Dam, which is just on the Arizona side of Mesquite, Nevada. I was overheated, underfed, tired, and just stupid. I started feeling better after drinking about six bottles of water, planting myself on top of an air conditioning vent, and hearing some good gossip (the best medicine). When I get a surge of adrenaline it’s amazing how much energy I have – but at the same time my tolerance levels have become astonishingly low. I’m not very patient or tolerant of intolerance, and won’t notice how miserable I am until someone mentions that I’m flushed and panting like a dog.

I’ve been very wary of swelling – because for me, vanity is a great solace. And so far, I can’t surely say that there has been any irregular swelling, in my legs or arms. But now I’m in the third trimester! The first trimester is supposed to be awful, the second a breeze, and then the third is supposed to be awful again. My thus far unmarked belly is supposed to become an abstract splattering of stretch marks, with a terrifying linea negra splitting me down the middle. My legs are supposed to become the size of tree trunks, with vericose veins wrapping around them like snakes. I’m supposed to waddle and lose my jawline and have contractions. Terrifying! Already putting on pants or tying shoes is a brobdingnagian task.

I should be grateful that these are the least of my worries. I couldn’t ask for a better pregnancy, or a more active, constantly reassuring baby. Every doctor’s visit has been perfect, and yet I’m still terrified that after my next appointment (on Tuesday), everything will tumble downhill, and I’ve wasted my beautiful comfortable second trimester moping and avoiding. But really, my vanity is the string holding everything together. If I lose it, I’m afraid I’ll break right in half. Vanity is what makes me accomplish things, what makes me interested in other people. It’s my brand of self-confidence. If I don’t like what I see in the mirror it won’t be long until I stop laughing at my own jokes or reading my articles and patting myself on the back.  It’s a short road to an inferiority complex and a life without meaning.

I try to be as aware of that road as I can – because if I’m aware of a personal trait (barring physical or mental illness), I’m in control of it. The more aware I am of how dangerous it would be to lose my vanity, the harder I’ll hang onto it. It’s a precious commodity. Today I’m saving my life by getting a trim, a new hair color, and an eyebrow wax.

This is difficult for me to write – I don’t like sharing with people very much. I haven’t practiced, and so am pretty terrible at it. But there’s something so liberating about being open about things – not caring who knows the truth. I’m not to that point yet – I don’t want anyone to know the whole truth – but every step towards transparency takes more stress away than it adds. I should mention that my main inspiration in being so open on a personal blog is Ev’Yan of Apricot Tea. Hers is also a fashion-y blog, but she is so honest about her life and relationships.  Sure, it can be honestly called a meeting of exhibitionism and nosy surveyance, but it’s helpful. Comforting. I used to dislike blogs like hers, but reading a well-written personal account is … well, it’s important to me.

I should mention two other blogs that I love who are also very very open about their personal life: Pacing the Panic Room and Dustpan Alley.

Sigh. I feel better now.