A warning – this is a long, rant-filled post. I’m completely indulging in self-pity, and I hope to rid myself of that feeling by the time I’m done. Bear with me. Honestly, I almost don’t want to publish this post. I’m slightly embarrassed by my childlike emotions. Getting them out there, though, might take them right away.
Man, am I pissed off. I’m just – pissed. What was sadness has now channeled into a more thrilling emotion – anger. I’m angry.
Let me preface all of this by stating, again, that I know I don’t have it bad. I really don’t. And I don’t mean to imply that I do. It could be so much worse, and I’m grateful that it’s not. But I can only live in my own world, and experience my own situation. Thinking about how much worse I could have it doesn’t make this situation suck any less.
I’m mad for multiple reasons. I’ll attempt to sort them out.
Reason #1 – this one is a given. I’m pissed I’m not pregnant. Plain and simple. The timing was – impeccable. It couldn’t have been any better. My temps were beautiful. I had “symptoms”. There really should be no reason that this didn’t work. But it didn’t.
Reason #2 – I’m mad that the whole wide world has suddenly come down with a bad case of the pregnancy bug, and I haven’t caught it myself. Horrible thoughts like, “I doubt I’ll be pregnant by the summer” have come creeping into my brain. To be honest, I might have to leave Facebook. At least, I might stop checking it. Every time that I scroll through my news feed I am hit with someone’s baby something. Baby pictures, baby announcements, husbands swooning about their pregnant wives – seriously, I want to throw my phone out the window. I thought I’d be more mature about this, and handle this without excess drama but apparently at the moment I’m incapable of doing so.
Reason #3 (This is the biggest one) – I know I should be forgiven for this, but I am most angry at the fact that I allowed myself to believe, 100%, that I was pregnant. I’m so damn upset with myself for this. Ever since ovulation, I was so sure it happened. So sure, in fact, that I convinced my husband. We set out on our nightly walks, talking about how much vacation time N has, and if he could take off the month of December. Yes, my due date would’ve been Nov.25th. Stupid FF, for even telling me that. He would ask me, “You got a baby in that belly?” And I’d respond with, “I think so!” Stupid, stupid, stupid. It did dawn on me a few times during the TWW that I haven’t yet actually had a positive pregnancy test. Ha, I’d think. Oops. Well, once I started, I couldn’t stop. I was pregnant in my mind, and that’s it. And though I’m ridiculously disappointed, I’m more upset to read my husband’s disappointment on his face. He was so excited. I was so excited. And I convinced him it was happening. I thought my super-ovulation might have even released more than one egg, and we entertained the idea of multiples. We have names picked out (we have for a good year or so), and those names started to be spoken.
There’s a few other, secondary reasons I’m mad. (Gosh, I sound whiny. Oops.)
Last Thursday, in the midst of the end of the TWW craziness, I was asked by another person in my building if I was expecting. Since September, when I started at this school and met a whole bunch of new people, two have asked me if I’m pregnant, and one asked when I would be. Why, why, whyyyy do you have to ask me this?? And here’s the worst part of it – the woman who asked me last week asked because it looked like I was. You know what “you look like you’re pregnant” is code for? You guessed it – “You’re fat.”
Now, this woman is very nice, and I don’t know her from a hole in the wall. I was waiting to pick up my students from lunch and I had my arms crossed. I’m sure my nice little gut was sticking out, and my posture was probably bad. So she looked at my stomach, came over to me and said, “Oh, oh my, are you…are you expecting?” “No..”I replied. “Oh,” she said, “It just looked like you…” Then, realizing her mistake, she started apologizing, and I felt a little bit badly for her, because she has been nice throughout the time I’ve known her. So, I told her we were trying, but no, this is not a pregnancy belly. I’ve just…gained some weight.
Here’s the thing, and I know I’ve mentioned this before, too. I am self-conscious of my weight. I’m mad at myself, disgusted with the fact that I just binged-ate my way through this past weekend and today, and I’m aware that in the past year or so I have formed a nice little gut/butt….and I’m not happy about it. That said, I’m not very overweight. I could stand to lose 10-15 pounds. That’s it. I’m still in the “normal” range of my BMI. I think, though, that people notice that my gut and butt don’t fit the rest of my body. My frame screams that I should be smaller. And I’m not. It’s noticeable. The side view, in my opinion, isn’t pretty. I exercise though, and that’s not a problem. My problem is my food – I eat a LOT. A ton. As much as N, if not more sometimes. And he’s got 45 pounds on me. I emotionally eat. I stressfully eat. I eat when I’m bored. And lately, I’ve been eating when I’m upset and full of anxiety. That’s been, oh I don’t know, the last four weeks. Four months…a year. Two years. Which leads me to my next point.
I’m super-pissed at my body. Why do I have health problems? Why? I have healthy parents, I grew up healthy, what I actually eat is quite healthy, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, I really barely even drink. I’ve been active all my life, I’ve made good choices. Why, then, in my 20’s, has my immune system decided to do a back flip? I should not have to have a reproductive endocrinologist, a rheumatologist, an endocrinologist, an allergist, etc. I should not have to be sugar-free in order to avoid my lips swelling up like a balloon. I should not have to be punished after eating a cupful of no-sugar added ice cream last night with a face full of lip hives this morning, as I hung my head in shame walking into the gym. For the love of God, just don’t look at my lips. I should not have to make sure my Synthroid goes down with enough water at 5 am every morning to keep my TSH levels at bay. I shouldn’t have to wonder if my positive ANA-titer is going to result in lupus, or rheumatoid arthritis someday. I shouldn’t have to wonder, when a cycle doesn’t work, whether it’s just bad luck this time, or if my endless autoimmune antibodies are at play.
Then again, none of us should have to go through what we go through. I know you’ve contemplated this yourself. I just wrote a giant post that can be summed up in three words – “It’s not fair!” And it’s not. Not at all.
Am I done yet? Yes, almost.
My gym is a brand-new YMCA. When I’m not taking a class, I’m hitting the treadmill. You know what window the treadmills face? The one out into the lobby, where on a Saturday morning there are more babies and toddlers there than adults. And they walk by, and wave, and smile, and parents coo. All while I’m attempting to run off my fat, as my sweat literally (no joke) drips down my arms. Yes, I’m nasty when I exercise.
I’m going to have to face Easter, seeing all my family and N’s family, with not a single good thing to say. I was really hoping to have a good secret. I almost want to hide from the world until I feel better. I haven’t been able to give myself to my family and friends. I’ve always been a good listener, and I like to give advice as well. I like being a part of my family and friends’ worlds. Lately, the only world I’ve been stuck in is my own. I don’t feel like I’ve been a good friend or family member the last few months or so. When I see anyone, honestly, what else is there to talk about? Is there anything else in my life as important and thought-consuming as TTC? No, there isn’t. Nothing else has mattered lately. And I’m not happy about that, either. I used to like my job, and I had other interests. I need to get those back. No one wants to hear me whine again and again, and I don’t feel comfortable doing so. Hence this blog. Sorry to those who get a double dose – on the blog and in real life!
I’m done. Phew.
That was a humungous dose of whiny, “I’m feeling sorry for myself” ranting. I do apologize. I never thought I’d become such a bitter person. I don’t like this new personality trait. I’m going to have to work on it.
And you know what? I do feel better, so thank you. Nothing’s more unpleasant than a whiny, overweight infertile. If I’m going to continue having issues conceiving a child, I might as well look good doing so.
I’m already wishing I didn’t write this post. I feel so much less anger and sadness right now that it’s almost worth deleting. I feel better. I’ve already started the new cycle, after all, and I just need to look ahead. Don’t look back.
Binge eating needs to stop, immediately. I need to count my calories. Work on looking my best, and try to forget about baby stuff. I need to put my bitterness away, at least until next cycle. I need to remind myself why I used to love my job. I need to invest in a hobby that has absolutely nothing to do with pregnancy.
I will learn to love life again, without a child in it. For now.