2020 brough many unexpected surprises, some welcome and some not so welcome. By the time August rolled around I had retreated into my hole while I tried to process the facts that we were separating children from their parents at the border, people still weren’t understanding that Black Lives Matter, we were in the middle of a global pandemic that our President was still calling “The Chinese Virus,” and that my state was literally on fire and burning out of control. Needless to say, the thought that I could be pregnant was not even remotely on my radar.
It seems like every woman you know of child-bearing age is suddenly pregnant. The women in your life who are on child two or three keep mentioning that when you are expecting, they have a whole garage full of baby supplies that they can offload on you. It feels like every conversation at lunch is centered around stories of spit up, sleep training, daycare, and scraped knees. The baby-making universe becomes a plague forcing you to catch baby fever.
Being diagnosed with Bipolar-II Disorder at age 29 is something I didn’t expect, but I would be lying if I said it was a surprise. I had lived with a previous diagnosis of generalized anxiety disorder and depression all my life, and it wasn’t until I received my Bipolar diagnosis that everything finally felt like it made sense and fell into place. That is, except for the area of family planning.