I was pregnant and depressed. Why wouldn’t anyone take me seriously?


“Is there a way to kill yourself without hurting the baby?” I Googled one night.

“Do children of parents who kill themselves have increased risk of depression?” I followed up, thinking about my 3-year-old.

The answer to the first is probably not. The answer to the second is a resounding yes.

This plan, now ruined, was my escape hatch, devised during my second pregnancy. I couldn’t find practitioners who didn’t dismiss my symptoms as “just pregnancy,” and I knew my desolation was affecting my family, so I wrote a letter one night, apologizing for my inadequacy. I did this just in case.

At my first prenatal visit, brimming with morning sickness, I met a peppy midwife. She congratulated me on being pregnant. I wanted to punch her in the head.

I told her I’d never been more miserable in my entire life.

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