35. Emily
emily
T he rest of the first trimester drags by.
I am crippled with intense fatigue and morning sickness that persists all day long.
I want to beat whoever coined the term “morning sickness” with a bat until they’re a bloody pulp.
Morning sickness gives me the illusion of hope that I will feel better as the day progresses.
It should not send me running to the bathroom dry heaving at random times throughout the day.
My appetite has been nonexistent, thanks to the ever-present nausea and dry heaves.
The bright side? I haven’t actually lost any of my meals yet.
I have little energy most days, and my workouts have been pathetic, but I feel optimistic that things will get better soon.
At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me about how wonderful the second trimester will be.
I haven’t started showing yet, but I feel bloated and disgusting.
I have so much more respect for pregnant women now that I’m going through it myself.
Ben and I have been spending our evenings researching what to expect when adding another person to our still very new relationship.
He doesn’t seem worried about our future, but I am riddled with anxiety about what comes next.
I have yet to meet his parents, and I know he hasn’t told them much about our unexpected news.
From what he’s told me about them, they seem like nice people.
We have dinner plans with them this weekend, and I’m queasy just thinking about it.
Meeting Ben’s parents will also serve the purpose of letting them know that they’ll also be grandparents.
It makes me wonder how I should handle telling my parents.
I haven’t seen or talked to them in years.
My father and I get along fine, but he’s a passenger in the relationship while my mother is the driver.
She’s the reason for many of my childhood traumas that have echoed into my adult life.
My mother met my father when she was just a teenager.
My grandmother had fled her home country with her six kids and the clothes on their backs in search of a better life—the all-American dream of better opportunities and freedom from an oppressive government regime.
Upon entering the country, they stayed with family members and had to travel every few months.
It was on one of those trips that my parents met.
My father was also staying with family in the country, though he had to leave his elderly parents behind.
My parents’ story was defined by necessity, not love.
At the tender age of seventeen, my mother became pregnant with me, and I was born shortly before her eighteenth birthday.
Unfortunately, my mother found out after she had me and, while pregnant with my sister, that my father was previously married and had children he did not bring to America.
While I can understand the devastation my mother must have felt to find out her husband and father of her children had a secret family, I was also tired of her using me as a verbal, emotional, and, sometimes, physical punching bag.
After many years of her abuse, I finally had to learn to set some boundaries, which meant walking away from my mother and, ultimately, my father.
I don’t hold the same level of resentment for my father as I do for my mother, but I also can’t forgive him for turning a blind eye to the abuse for so many years.
The last time I spoke to my mother, I told her I could not continue talking to her or be near her if she wouldn’t stop mistreating me.
It was one of the hardest things I had ever done until this point.
I’ve learned to be alone and depend only on myself for everything.
Through the separation from my parents, I have become hyper-independent to the point of feeling like I don’t need anyone in my life.
I haven’t thought about it much until now, but it possibly contributed to why my relationships fail.
How can you be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t really even need you for anything? I’m sure it would impact self-esteem or egos. I guess I’ll have to find a therapist to work through these issues. Ben nudges me with his knee as if he could sense my racing thoughts.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he murmurs softly, and our eyes meet. He reaches a hand to brush back a stray hair and tuck it behind my ears. I turn my face into the palm of his hand and let his touch center me. After a moment, I pull away and heave a dramatic sigh.
“I guess we should probably talk about my parents.” He looks at me curiously but says nothing.
I tell him the whole sad story of my childhood.
He listens with a contemplative look but doesn’t interrupt me.
Finally, when I’m done with the verbal diarrhea, I plop on my back on the couch and cover my face with my hands.
“Ugh. I just don’t know what to do. Should I tell them?
Do they want to know? Would they even care?
It’s been almost ten years,” I lament while Ben picks up my feet and places them in his lap, rubbing small circles around the arch of my feet.
The foot massage makes me moan in pleasure, and I feel his body tense.
It’s been a few days since we’ve had sex since I’ve been passing out as soon as my head hits the pillow lately.
“Do you want to know what I think?” He poses the question, but I know it’s rhetorical. “I think you should tell them if you want to. They don’t need to be involved in anything you don’t want them to be. Whatever you decide, we’ll do it together.”
These damn pregnancy hormones keep wreaking havoc on my emotions as his words bring tears to my eyes. I sniff and crane my neck to look up at him and mouth the words, “Thank you.”
I must have fallen asleep on the couch at some point. I stir awake when Ben lifts me and cradles me to his chest to carry me into our bedroom. He tucks me in, and I fall asleep surrounded by his warmth.