Facing the mean girl within us all

My mind is full of mean girls. Their names are Ego, Super Ego and Super Duper Ego.

I’m not sure how my preconception consultation with the perinatologist turned into a cathartic rant about how mean and judgmental women can be, but it did. It totally did.

First, I would like to start off by saying that I am absolutely not one of those women who don’t have women friends and says she “relates” better to guys. Gag me. That’s  not who I am at all. In fact those women annoy me. (Looks like maybe I’m the one who’s being mean and judgmental.)

I have handfuls of women friends, whom I love. My husband has noted that he has never known a woman to have as many female friends as I do. And to give credit where credit is do, my friends are awesome. I feel extremely blessed to have such an amazing group of strong, intelligent, funny, sincere, beer-drinking woman in my life. I am truly blessed.

And honestly, if it weren’t for Facebook, pregnancy blogs and daytime television I wouldn’t even know how viscously opinionated woman can be when it comes to anything related to child bearing.

I left my small town because I hated the fish bowl, yet daily I log on to my cyber fish bowl where I see a plethora of photos and status updates reminding me of all of my shortcomings. And to be fair I put myself there. I mean I created this blog to share my experience about living with bipolar disorder and trying to have a baby.

I wanted to empower other woman who have this disorder. I wanted to break the stigma that’s associated with mental illness. I wanted to inspire others to share their stories.

But the truth is family planning is a very personal topic. One that I’m not willing to completely share on the public blogosphere.

I sat in the high risk OB’s office today with tears streaming down my face.

I tend to worry. And when it comes to decisions that will effect my future children, I tend to worry a lot.

I also have a neurotic concern that others are judging me.

“Uh, did you hear about Arley? Staying on her medications, despite the fact that there is a 1 percent chance that the baby could have Ebstein’s anomaly.”

“What a bitch. I mean sure she went two doctor’s who said the likelihood is less than 1 percent but what kind of selfish mother would put her child at risk like that. I mean just because she can’t handle the 'pre-baby blues'?”

“I know. People like her shouldn’t even have children.”

Okay, so maybe women in real life aren’t as mean as those in my inner-monologue, but you see what I mean. And I haven’t even replayed the conversations these evil inner-voices have had about me regarding, gasp, formula feeding! Or adoption. Here’s brief snippet of how the adoption conversation that plays in my head.

“Can you believe that stupid bitch Arley wantsta procreate? I mean how narcissistic is that when there are tons of children just waiting to be adopted. Not to mention all the 'crazy' genes she’ll pass down to the poor kid.”

“I know. I mean, sure most adoption agencies don’t let mentally ill people adopt, but really should the mentally ill have children at all?”

Let's hope that women in general aren’t as judgmental and bitchy as the super ego who dominates the conversations in my brain.

But this is the state to which I came to the doctor’s office today.

“I just want to know,” I said after blotting the tears from my eyes. “Is it completely irresponsible for me to try to conceive as someone with bipolar disorder?”

“No,” the doctor said without hesitation.

One word. Two letters. Lots of relief.