As I round the second corner of this pregnancy into the third trimester I'm finally beginning to experience some of the mythos and stigmas and humor of pregnancy.
"Your body is not your own."
"You lose control of the little control you had."
Etc Etc Etc
Maybe these things were there all along and I was just so depressed I couldn't see it?
Maybe I'm finally in a place with myself, Nugget, and our body to really appreciate it?
Maybe the third trimester is the physical boiling point of pregnancy and all pistons are firing full throttle?

Probably a little of all three topped off with the mysterious pregnant unknown.

Either way.
The heart burn is here.
The lower back pain has arrived.
The hip dislocation has appeared.
Pregnancy brain is real.
And the farts.
Lord, the farts.


Now, anyone that knows me knows that I believe farts to be the funniest thing on this planet next to Bill Burr and babies making faces videos. It has been my kryptonite in many an argument, the reason I cry from laughing, and the center of my hilarity universe for as long as I can remember.  People that know me also know that I.... myself... have attempted to live my own life as fart-free as possible.
How can that be, you ask?
I alter my diet, I fart alone, and I really try very very very hard to never let anyone who likes, loves, or wants to be around me see, hear, or smell me fart. Ever.
It's a rare occasion when one slips out.
(Pro tip: if we're ever in the same building and I'm alone in a room laughing hysterically at something you don't know, it's probably because I just farted.)
Now, don't get me wrong... I have actually broken up with partners over incessant farts. No joke. If you carelessly and constantly fart in my presence without remorse, without control, and without consideration--Imma start gettin' pissed. And icked out. And turned off. It can cross the line into gross-ville quickly and will begin to rot away and ruin my respect and sexual attraction towards you.
Fret not, it's not an invisible slippery slope. I'm diligently vocal about all things relationship and disgust as sex with you is most likely top priority.

So after this brief history of my beliefs in farts, you all have a clue of where I stand. That's what is making this third trimester... of my very first pregnancy...
the funniest....
most hilarious...
most embarrassing...
most ridiculous....
most hypocritical...
all shapes and sizes...
all sounds and reverbs....
all places and locales....
all the gosh darn time...
fart fest of my entire life.

I was on the toilet just the other day and attempted to gently perhaps do a fart test check and squeeze out a little gas in the appropriate place and my bones cracked. MY BONES CRACKED. My back and hips cracked like I was at the chiropractor! I mean, what? Thanks, relaxin. This just means that I sat there and laughed and farted another three minutes.

I think it stems from genetics.
Members of my family, who I will attempt to remain nameless, are also giggling farters. This person often farts deliberately and not very quietly, in public and private, making the self laugh into fart frenzy and--oh my, it's the funniest thing I've ever bared witness to in my entire life.
One time we were in Walmart and the culprit mentioned above started farting in the tv/electronics  aisle, turned beet red, and began scooting away from me so as to imply to other shoppers that *I* was, in fact, the flatulence source! I scooted right after this person and thus began a laughing, slow motion, chase scene fart fest down the aisles.  Two hysterically red inside joke giggling people chasing fart blame in Walmart.

This is my genus.
This is what makes me who I am.

See, Nugget, you're blowing and tooting right into the best family ever.

Holiday Ham.
Chocolate Pie.
Mashed Potatoes.
Corn.
Crippling Food Coma Fatigue.

It's nearly that time of year where the raised Catholic guilt is at it's holiest and strongest. That time of year where you're supposed to think about babies, and families, and forgiveness, and the ''spirit of the season'' and whatnot. That time of year where you're supposed to reach out to the members of  your estranged family and invite them to your table for warmth and nourishment because the soul will be fed through joy and morals.

Allegedly.

I woke up this morning with that nonsense on my mind. Family... eh... I can forgive. We'll all come around.

It's the FOB that I'm rather having a difficult time ''being friends'' with. It's he that I'm having a hard time adjusting to the concept of co-parenting and forever-ness. I mean, when someone gives up on loving you five months into your pregnancy, it's a hard pill to swallow, regurgitate, and then call something else.
I saw this post today on facebook... someone I don't consider remarkably insightful shared it, but it struck a cord. It read:

How deeply I loved him.
How exposed and vulnerable I became.
How he was told all my secrets.
How forever-ness he felt.

And how much all that feels like it was held against me.

I'm not going to invite FOB to my holiday table. I'm not going to spoil him with love or attention or gratitude. I'm simply giving him the gift of coexistence, of letting go, and the first layer of forgiveness (not to be confused with forget-ness because nothing nothing can make me forget his transgressions).
Just one layer. A thin one. Moderately transparent and not very warm.
A single layer nonetheless.

The anti-depressants I'm on have made an improvement in my mental health, but are doing weird things to my body. I've been on them near two weeks. Mind you, I've never taken any medication beyond the occasional pain killer for fun my entire life.
I've had morning nausea and bouts of vertigo and it's been really a battle to focus. My mouth tastes like metal and I've had to switch to taking pills at night to try to sleep through the feelings. Doesn't really help that my bladder and my brain wake me up at 3:30am with saturated fullness. I haven't painted at all, but I've managed to do these little blogs and doodles. That gives me some focus hope.
So I feel like I'm just walking around my house like a zombie. Upstairs, downstairs, this room, that room, shower, makeup, couch, food--no real fire, no real feeling, just... existing.
I'll also take this combination of feeling and emotion over the manic panic ones before. At least my brain is somewhat docile and it's my body that doesn't know what to do. There's less fuel to the self and world anxiety, less fuel all around.
It's not even 11am and I'm about to turn in for my second nap of the day.
Oh yeah, I'm still building a human inside me so... there's that, too, i guess.
Onward and outward!

6am: I am going to leave the house!
9am: I'm going to leave the house.
11:45am: I'm ready to leave the house.
3pm: I'll try again tomorrow.

100 days left of pregnancy which means Nugget and I have survived 180 days inside the same roof without killing each other. We're off to a good start, but I wouldn't say the road hasn't been paved without difficulty.
The last 5-10 years of my unmedicated womanhood (I stopped taking the pill in my late twenties and it was the best thing I've ever done for my own mental health and body), I'd been blessed with a light period--barely there crampy-ness, little to no PMS, and the slightest bloating. If I was acting the twat around my menstrual cycle I would call myself out on it and not let it rain down and ruin me. The men I dated actually thanked me. It was something I learned to not brag about at an early age because the looks alone from women I would mention it to could kill. I knew pregnancy and it's hormonal effect on the body was gonna be tough... but nothing prepared me for the dark, crippling hole of depression, violent pendulum-esque mood swings, and multiple day panic attacks I would endure.
Panic attacks would induce an out of body and mind experience that I still couldn't describe accurately if I tried.  They would start with an intrusive thought and snowball from there. FOB would go out for an evening of friends and I'd be home pacing, sobbing, screaming, counting, circling, panting, panicking.
I couldn't control my thoughts, my heart rate, my words, anything. Everything came barreling out of me angry and forceful.
I could not physically exhaust myself in any way to make the feelings stop.
I didn't play (and haven't played) guitar in months.
I couldn't focus to paint.
I wrote insane rants in my journal.
I cut off all my friends.
I didn't leave the house.
Nothing brought me joy.
Thoughts of doom and dread were all consuming.
I looked to my FOB, desperately clung to him, for any source of happiness because mine was completely... and utterly gone.

I reached out. Many times. I was often met with dead ends and misunderstanding. FOB froze... and eventually broke up with me (we'll get to this later) in my manic state, leaving me even more in the ground... except now I was shitting water from stress and sobbing uncontrollably most hours of the day from the simplest of triggers.
I kept reaching.
My insurance made it impossible to find a GOOD therapist (lord, that's another blog all together... ) I could afford in my new, unemployed, single, poor pregnant state so I joined three weekly pregnancy circles. One, hosted by a dear friend and donated out of charity... another hosted by a local motherhood business and group technically meant for mothers suffering from postpartum depression, and another freebie at the same business on Saturdays.
I moved back in with my mother.
And, through persistence, my doctor finally prescribed an anti-depressant which... as much as I've pill shamed myself, I am glad to be taking.
It's been about ten days on the meds and... I'm nauseous, dizzy, my jaw is tense, and still struggling to focus... but the intrusive thoughts have weakened and lessened and I actually have some hope for my life. It could be psychosomatic this early in the game, but I don't care. Hope is hope.

I've got 100 days left with this Kiddo inside me and I finally feel pregnant. I think I might even be happy about it? I jokingly refer to the Kiddo as Lemonade cuz... man oh man I'm trying to make it.
FOB and I are still broken up and, as much as that haunts me... and all my dreams... I'm healthier for it.
I didn't give up asking for help. I asked reddit, I asked facebook, I asked my insurance, I asked my friends, I asked family, I asked my Doc and finally, through cumulative effort, I'm on the road to somewhere better than where I was.

Here are a list of links that helped me:
The Nurturing Nest Reno--Circles and Support
Ashley Hanna Morgan--LCSW
Reddit--Babybumps
Sacred Pregnancy--Sheila LeDrew

Having put all my eggs in one life and love basket has bit me in the ass and left me unemployed, incredibly poor, single, pregnant, and living with my mother. I wish I could say that I wouldn't have it any other way, but... I'd... I'd certainly have it any other way. Don't get me wrong, I'm sickeningly grateful for the relatively gentle fallout I've experienced from my life implosion. I just... still wish it hadn't quite imploded.
Having said that... I'm trying to carry on through this pregnancy with a sense of normalcy and one of those normal things that normal pregnant women do it have a baby shower... baby sprinkle... baby tinkle... or blessingway ritual.
As someone struggling with social anxiety and depression, this is a fucking nightmare.
As someone who really needs baby clothes and bottles cuz she can't afford life on her own right now, this is a fucking nightmare.

The struggle?
I know a ton of amazing women--women who've influenced my life in unforgettable ways, in fleeting moments of impact, and in long lasting durable relationships. I know women who've invited me to their baby showers who think of me in the same way. I know women who I just think are cool and would like to get to know better. I know women I need in this Nugget's life. I know women who I don't know who I just feel like I should invite because they're friends or family with my ex and part of his life.  Do I invite them all? Will they think I just need stuff? Will they show up? What do I do with them when they get here? What if my house isn't big enough? What if they feel obligated or awkward or pressured to attend?

I don't know how to focus on myself with all these other people walking around on the planet at the same time.
I know this in my pregnancy.
I know this is my Nugget.
I know this is a temporary step in a long life journey.

I just kinda wish I could sleep through it.

I've got two amazing girlfriends who are gonna plan this thing for me. They've volunteered and I've relinquished and it's happening. No silly parties, crock pots only, vicarious mimosa drinking, brunch thingie on a Saturday in February.  There's a date set so now I can count down the clock and wind myself up with anxiety as it approaches.
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help" keeps repeating.

"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"

I usually do things backwards.
Fall in love before we date, sell the art before it's made, eat the cookie while I cook... why shouldn't motherhood be added to the list?
I didn't jump on the marriage and baby train in my twenties. I watched that train go by with all it's bells and whistles, I applauded it's efforts, sent cheers to it with my martini, sarcastically tweeted my sarcastic opinions, and while my eyebrows may have cringed at the sight of all that white and purity and love... the little girl in my heart always hoped for her own 'someday.'
But don't tell anybody.

All I've ever wanted to do is paint, create, and laugh. I do whatever it takes to make sure I can do those three things, whatever menial side job, whatever intense gig, whatever hours, and whatever days--so long as I get to paint, create, and laugh it's all been worth it.
I've clawed grease out of ventilation fans with a butter knife at midnight for minimum wage.
I've served hot soup to hotheads with a smile for tips.
I've cracked open bottle after bottle in smokey bars for alcoholics.
I've taught art class to middle school kids who can't believe the talents in their pencils.
I've painted things that I can't stand for very little money because I love the person who asked for it.

So here we are at my newest job--growing a human.

I'm 34 and 25 weeks pregnant.
I'm "advanced maternal age" and unwed.
I'm recently dumped by the kiddo's father and living with my mother, my brother, and his little boy in our childhood home.
I'm fighting antenatal anxiety and depression with all my might and I'm writing and drawing and creating through it and it needs it's own backwards plot on the internet to exist.

So here we are at my newest side job--Mother...Still Expecting.