Last night, I had a terrible fight with my husband. For the first time in our 4 years together, we voluntarily slept apart - he on the couch, me in the bed.
Details don't matter. What matters is that this fight wouldn't have happened if I wasn't pregnant. It wasn't about being pregnant, but it started because I was in pain, and that pain was due to pregnancy. It ramped up because when I'm in pain I'm incapable (or unwilling) to use tact and diplomacy, instead working to make the world outside resemble the world inside, where everything is secondary to the sheer head-splitting agony I'm experiencing. Nothing in the world is more important to me at that moment than making the pain go away, and I'm desperate to make you feel the same sense of priority. If that means omitting the word "please" or letting loose a torrent of curse-words of which a future mother shouldn't be capable, fine. Whatever it takes.
So yes, the fight was my fault. I started it. And as I lay in the dark, alone in our queen-sized bed, I came to a scary realization. I don't like myself very much right now. I don't like myself very much when I'm pregnant. I'm not a nice person, or even a good person. I'm so enormously self-involved that I hardly even remember the existence of other people, except as receptacles for my own complaining, or potential solvers of my myriad problems. There's pain, and there's hormones, and there's inability to exercise and eat properly, and there's nausea and fatigue and a constant feeling of malaise, and somehow that becomes an excuse for me to become an utter, complete asshole.
I can't do this again. I hope the next few weeks go well, and that we hear the heartbeat and the little bugger actually survives the first trimester and that the hormones back off and I start to feel better like everyone's been promising for the past two months and in seven more months I'll give birth to a healthy baby and then I will never do this again. Please God.