40 Weeks And Three Days And Counting

I thought I had managed to leave the house like an adult for once this afternoon, wearing a bra and an unstained t-shirt. But it only took a few minutes for that bubble to burst, I had forgotten deodorant.  These last few weeks I’ve noticed every time I go out I look a mess. Something is not right. My hair is unwashed. The clothes are stained or don’t fit. I rarely wear a bra. I’ve worn the same shorts for a week and a half before begrudgingly putting them in the wash. I look like a mess constantly.

The last few weeks of the pregnancy are dragging on and on. Though I have yet to decide if they are worse than the first few weeks. Those weeks. 7, 8, 9 … When it feels like the fetus’ life hangs in the balance at all times. Will it successfully attach to my womb and thrive? Or will all my hopes be for nothing? Now every night I go to sleep after a long day of walking, fucking, stretching and gorging on pineapple, hoping this night will be the night. Only to wake up in the morning to face another monotonous day. And who am I kidding, the constant anxiety about the fetus’ life hanging in the balance never goes away. I doubt it will go away even when the fetus has been ejected and become a screaming lump of realness. 

None of this feels real. 

All of it feels too real. 

Forty weeks and three days and counting. 

My feet are swollen.

My stomach itches.

My son likes to lay with his legs in my ribs and at night my heart pounds too fast and I can’t breathe well. 

When I stand up some part of his body is stabbing my bladder. 

And when I can’t remember if he’s moved in the last ten minutes I start to spiral. 

My anxiety hasn’t been this high in a year and all I can think is how grateful I am that I was in therapy for years before this. There’s no way I could have survived without the coping skills I learned. 

Forty weeks and three days and counting.

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