Prenatal Depression: A Horror Story

My very favorite horror story -Last Days by Adam Nevill - starts the same way many horror stories do, with a whisper. The protagonist is investigating what some claim to be a haunted apartment building. Armed with  a video camera, he goes at night to check things out, because of course. First he hears faint footsteps that could conceivably be just the aches of an old building. So quiet, but so unsettling.

I heard the faint footsteps. In the quiet hours between chores, during a nap, or when the lights were off and everyone was sleeping, there was the whispering, so quiet and inconsistent I could easily name it simply hormones, fatigue, winter, bronchitis. I identified it and went on my way.

Next, our skeptical protagonist, catches the faintest glimpse of that otherworldly horror through the viewfinder of his camera. It is so fast and so unbelievable that, although he had seen it, after only a few moments, he shakes it off, puts it from his mind.

There were days, never two in a row though, that I saw it. Unlike our protagonist, I recognized it; I faced this ghost before. It's sudden appearance would shock me, frighten me, but then it would be gone when I woke up the next morning after a bit of a cry, maybe a cup of coffee, and some time getting the worst of it off my chest to David. The next day would be fine. The whole episode seemed so fast, like it maybe hadn't happened. Hormones, fatigue, winter...

I eventually listened to the ghost. Like the protagonist, sighting by sighting, the mystery became more clear. Not hormones or winter. There was emptiness. A disconnection.

I didn't feel this new baby. I didn't love this new baby.

I shoved this away. It's a repulsive thought and I was indeed repulsed by it. And if I didn't shove it away, what could I do with it? Should I share this emptiness and fear with David, the man who trusts me to take care of his children all day? Could I talk to a therapist who would recommend drugs that make me feel spaced out of my gourd? What about the friends I haven't seen in years? Could I pray to a Heavenly Father who has never carried a baby in His body and, according to scripture, loves His children unconditionally? What could He know of this pain?

My conclusion was that I should just leave it be. A couple days a month seems manageable, especially working off the assumption that everything will fall into place once I meet this baby. Besides, how dare I complain about this baby. So many dear friends of mine have bravely shared their struggle with infertility, miscarriages, and lost babies. I have a baby! I have another growing within my body! What a beautiful blessing! How dare I feel anything but gratitude or love?

But I didn't. I don't. I can't.

I am managing though. I do indeed talk to David.  I continue to pray. I'm not sure if my prayers are understood, but I know that they are heard. I will probably seek out therapy, even if just to have another listening ear.

I am haunted but I am not alone.

We are all haunted. Perhaps it is the sickness of our past or the babies we have never held, but we all have our ghosts. I share mine in an effort to put it to rest. I share to include you in my struggle because I refuse isolation. Isolation is a weapon a depressed mind uses against itself, and I will not be my own enemy. I refuse isolation. I do not compare my horror to my friend's; that isn't fair to either of us. Down that path lies useless guilt and guilt that doesn't inspire improvement is simply poison. I share my confidence in the future. Fear is another weapon that I will not have used against me. I will love this baby. Even if it takes longer than that first embrace, I will.


Our protagonist eventually has to face down an unimaginable evil, fight it, and destroy it. He does it alone. I will not.