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The attacks from inside of me have begun; the panic when things are not in my control, and the fear that bombards everything that I do. Knowing that I have this disease does not mean I know how to fight it, it does not mean that I can draw upon my own strength to combat it and win. With the darkness does not come hope for the light, and maybe I have traveled this road before, but never with so much at stake. Never with a precious child waiting for me, depending on me, needing me not to break.

And the scary part is that I need to break, I need to fall apart and build myself once again. This child is moving within me, but even with our breaths comingling there is no relief for the suffering I must endure. And I know that God is asking me to endure this for the sake of my child, for the potential of all this child can be. And the worst part is that I know after the tests that I am being put through for this child, I will expect more from them, I will expect them to fight as well.

I will expect this child to be more than I am, I will expect this child to fight the battles and come away bloody but victorious, and how is that fair to one small being. With my first child, the fear and the sickness scared off the darkness so that I could concentrate on just the beauty. With this child there is no sickness and the fear is not tied to them, instead it is tied to my own soul. And the unfairness of these thoughts keeps me up at night. How dare I ask this much of such a beautiful being, how dare I demand that they be more than even God’s angels.

I was having an attack while driving today and I saw this child’s face as clearly as I can see my own. There were no smiles, no breath, but a deep beseeching plea in their eyes for the future, and I have to give that future to them, even at the expense of myself. Being a mother means that you give life at the expense of your own, but as a woman with mental problems, it means that you ignore all that your heart, all that your soul, and all that your mind is telling you and simply focus on a pair of eyes you have never seen.

It is early, yet I am tired of the battle. It is early, yet the music is so far away from my heart that I must hope this child is simply comforted by my trying. This child will have something no one else has, they will have my battle scars, because for the first time in my life I am conscience of the battle I am waging for my very life. This child will carry within their soul the beats of my heart, the fear coursing through my veins, and the hatred that infuses my dreams late at night; for this baby is me, and I am this baby. And if I could have one prayer, one miracle granted by God, it will be that for this child the scars are never needed to be acknowledged, and that the scars are held by God himself. I do not need forgiveness, I do not need someone to hear me crying late into the darkness; but I need God to hold my child tight and protect them from the scars that I have no choice but to inflict. Because it is either the scars that I give my child, or no hope of life at all.