Content warning: suicidal ideation
“I wish I could disappear,” I admitted to my doctor during my sixth month of pregnancy. After checking my belly, he casually asked if there was anything else on my mind. In a moment of vulnerability—perhaps a desperate plea for help—I shared my truth: I felt like I didn’t want to go on living.
The details of what followed are a blur, reminiscent of a night when you first experimented with a drink. I distinctly remember my doctor firmly marching toward the perinatal psychiatry department, insisting I needed an appointment that same day. His demeanor was commanding, like a leader directing a retreat. However, they couldn’t see me right away. In fact, I learned that I would have to wait a month, which felt like an eternity; I couldn’t fathom surviving until then.
My doctor and I discussed the possibility of hospitalization, but the thought of enduring hospital meals at 28 weeks pregnant was disheartening. After dealing with severe morning sickness that left me unable to keep food down for the first twenty weeks, the joy of eating had become my only comfort. I promised him that if I could go home, I would manage. And while I wasn’t exactly lying, “managing” was a relative term. When you’re used to living with a low-level awareness of suicidality, simply surviving can feel like success. I left his office, treated myself to a breakfast sandwich, and caught an Uber home.
For the past few years, I had been open about my mental health challenges, including generalized anxiety disorder, persistent depressive disorder, and complex post-traumatic stress disorder—issues rooted in a difficult past marked by trauma and eating disorders. Yet, as I navigated pregnancy, I realized none of these conditions were my fault until I became pregnant.
Pregnant women are often viewed as vessels, prioritized for the health of their unborn children. We are warned against consuming certain foods or beverages, all in the name of safety. Relatives frequently check in, reminding us to be cautious as the weather turns icy, as if our previous lives didn’t matter. The focus becomes solely about the growing life within us. Therefore, admitting to feelings of wanting to end it all feels like the ultimate betrayal of that role.
My baby was wanted, but my experience of pregnancy was fraught with challenges I never desired. I faced three threatened miscarriages that had me rushing to the emergency room, blood staining my underwear. I didn’t want to endure relentless nausea, sneaking out of work meetings to vomit. I didn’t want to lose an organ, but my expanding uterus pushed my right kidney out of its rightful place, discovered only at a 19-week anatomy scan. To this day, it’s still unanchored in my body, floating without direction.
The urge to end my life wasn’t born from a desire to die; rather, it stemmed from an inability to manage the weight of creating new life. The constant stress of my child’s well-being, along with the toll pregnancy took on my own health, became overwhelming. There’s no respite in pregnancy; it’s a demanding job that no one can do for you, even for a moment.
After I sought help, more obstacles emerged. A psychiatrist prescribed me anti-anxiety medication, but the pharmacist hesitated to fill my prescription for Ativan, stating he felt uncomfortable giving it to a pregnant woman. I walked home in tears, feeling desperate for the medication I believed I needed. I didn’t want to hear from someone who had never experienced pregnancy and lacked expertise in mental health.
The friends who distanced themselves when I revealed my struggles weighed heavily on me. The implicit judgment, the notion that contemplating suicide was selfish as a pregnant woman, made me feel like a pariah unworthy of help. When my loved ones expressed their frustration with my thoughts, I resorted to calling a suicide hotline at 39 weeks, desperate to survive long enough to welcome my baby. The following week, as I labored, my epidural failed, and everyone around me said, “You’re doing great!” But what did they know? I wasn’t thriving; I was merely trying to endure. No one present had given birth before, including my husband, and they didn’t understand the feeling of helplessness that comes from transforming one body into two.
When I first laid eyes on my daughter, relief washed over me. I was grateful I hadn’t given up on our intertwined lives. Yet, even the memory of her birth is tinged with shame. I was haunted by thoughts of how close I had come to abandoning her—how I had thought about jumping off my balcony or drowning myself. I felt like a horrible mother before I even held her.
In conversations with other mothers, I joked about morning sickness, never mentioning the dark thoughts that had plagued me. I feared that others would deem me unworthy of my daughter, the perfect baby who deserved a better mother. For the initial months of her life, nightmares haunted me—visions of her vanishing, suffocating under a blanket, or being taken away by someone who thought I was unfit.
As I write these words, I still grapple with worry. I fear that you, the reader, might view me as a monster for having contemplated harming a wanted child. But my hope in sharing this narrative is that maybe, just maybe, someone will understand. I’m not a bad person for having experienced a difficult time during pregnancy.
Carrying my daughter was an experience filled with paradoxes—the best and worst of my life. I hope someone can relate to this duality.
If you’d like to explore more about similar experiences, check out this blog post that delves into related topics. For more resources, Pacific Fertility Center provides valuable insights, and the NHS offers excellent information about pregnancy and home insemination.
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Summary:
This article explores the complex and often hidden struggles of experiencing suicidal thoughts during pregnancy. It highlights the difficulties women face in seeking help and the stigma surrounding mental health issues while pregnant. The author shares her personal journey of coping with mental illness while navigating the challenges of pregnancy, emphasizing the importance of understanding and support.