bernie.

irregular programming, because writing is helping.

(trigger warning: pregnancy loss.)

The past few days, I’ve been very depressed. That in-your-body-can’t-find-the-will-to-shower depression. That sleep-in-your-jeans depression. I hate how embarrassing it still feels to me to talk about depression. I remember shaking as I posted this Instagram almost five years ago. I know drinking contributes, so I’ve reeled that in and yet—here I was again. Just feeling the heaviness in my body and not knowing why. The heavy balloon.

I laid on my bed yesterday evening, atop a bunch of laundry that needed to be folded, and just stared into nothingness. I remembered how my college roommate told me that she could always tell when something was wrong, because I would lay on my bed, but not be sleeping or reading… just be awake, laying down. I laid there yesterday as Marcelline turned on every light in the room and asked if I wanted to listen to her Toniebox.

I hate feeling this way. I felt like my body might be keeping the score again without informing me. I wondered why now was my body ruminating on anniversaries I don’t remember immediately. Is it because my body is rounding the corner to it’s fourth decade and it wants to reflect on only the ominous feelings? Some kind of fucked-up life-in-review Powerpoint presentation that is taking place in my chest, but I can’t crane my neck in the right way to view it. Maybe it’s because I’m back in Jackson? This place that I had so much growing and coming-of-age. And then I had life outside of this place where I felt like I grew and became an adult. And then I came back here. Is this why my body keeps coming back to hard places?

I laid there yesterday, trying to figure out if this is what was happening. I recalled… okay, February… almost Valentine’s… oh… right… shit.

I went to the kitchen and found Evan.

Me: Ev, I’ve been so depressed—as you know—and I was laying there starting to wonder if it was a body-keeps-the-score kind of thing and I was depressed because of something that happened around this time.

Evan: Bernie.

Me: Yeah, Bernie.

Bernie is what we called my first pregnancy. The first time I was pregnant. We called the baby Bernie. I started miscarrying on February 12, 2019. I really miscarried and went to the doctor on February 13th.

rachelstevenssss

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“I was having a miscarriage. I was an absolute mess. I was unrecognizable. it was heartbreak after a first love. broken. that evening, catatonic, in bed, Evan made me a few manhattans and I drowned further. the next day he brought flowers into our bedroom and I realized, oh my god it's Valentine's Day, because my life is a poorly written rom-com. and I continued to miscarry.”

My body reminded me that it went through something horrible and heartbreaking six years ago. And though the depression may be seasonal and genetic and alcohol-induced, I truly believe that it is also my body wanting to keep the score… wanting to remember.

I woke up this morning and got Marcelline off to school with Evan who takes her. I was making coffee in the kitchen, thinking about February 13, 2019 and just started crying. In many ways, what the people want to read on the internet and what you want to tell yourself is that: It happened for a reason—look at all the goodness that happened afterwards. Look at Marcelline. She’s perfect. You might not have her, if you had that first baby. “I never would’ve gotten my dream job if I would’ve stayed pregnant the first time!” “We’ve always only wanted one child and Marcelline is that one child.”

And I’ve been telling myself that for almost five years now. Hell, I wrote about it in the New York Times. Of course I love my family and the life we’ve all had together in this short time is beautiful, but this morning, I was just so sad about Bernie. I miss them. I was so sad to lose them.

What if I wouldn’t have miscarried? What if I would’ve had that baby? Would I have two children now? Would we be a family of four? Would Marcelline have an older sibling? I bet I would not have been laid off from my job, because I would’ve been obviously pregnant by the time we lost our big client and they wouldn’t have laid off a pregnant lady. Would I still be a creative director? Would Evan and I actually be homeowners? Would we live in Seattle still? I cried more and more—grieving the life I missed out on when I miscarried six years ago. The things that no one wants to hear. The regrets or the grief that make you feel like your life could have been so different. And that if maybe they had been different, you wouldn’t be sleeping in your jeans, just to feel real, just to feel seen. Your skin indented and roughly touched by only a clothes-making machine.

It’s okay to feel grief and sadness and depression, in whatever way it comes to you. I’ve been talking a lot about how you have to “name it to tame it.” Crying in my kitchen this morning really helped. Maybe because of this tried and true quote. But maybe I felt better because grief lives in the body and wants to be acknowledged when it shows up. So there I was and here I am, acknowledging Bernie and grief and not being the bright-shiny internet personality everyone wants to see, which is—ironically—really helping my depression. Sending you love and a—much needed—hug on this February 13th.