Are there any women out there who haven’t had, at some point, an at least mildly dysfunctional relationship with their body and/or food? In too many ways, the baby frustration and the ART crazy-train have exacerbated this and thrust me squarely back into the conflicts of my twenties. In short, I gained 50 pounds between my first miscarriage (3 months after we started trying) and my 3rd failed IVF (one year ago this month). Then I was so crazed and depressed that I casually stopped eating and sleeping with any kind of regularity; this combined with the constant fidgeting of my unshackled generalized anxiety (e.g. calories burned while leg-shaking, lip-chewing, finger-drumming, pacing the floor, etc.) enabled me to drop 30 of those pounds with ease from September through the holidays and then another 10 following IVF failure #4 in February. But since the springtime, I feel like I’m up to my old tricks again, especially since summer vacation started as it provides countless opportunities to justify social overindulgence plus long, bored weekdays of thinking, eating and crying on the couch. I was texting with a girl from my support group yesterday about this: how infertility makes you fat, and as if feeling one penis short of being a man because my stupid ovaries can’t make babies isn’t hard enough on body image, I get to feel bloated, flabby, and generally gross as well.
This is why I’m fat:
It’s raining? Pfffft, I obviously can’t exercise, right? I should just go back to bed. I clearly cannot run out for the shelves and drawers to reorganize the hall closet today like I planned. That would require leaving the house…IN THE RAIN. What if it gets on me?? I’ll melt like the wicked witch.
These are my sneakers. See how I’m not in them? Also notice the red tag on the right shoe, which is from my last race. I haven’t run a single step since then–over a week ago.
That’s my yoga mat. She hasn’t seen the light of day in over 2 weeks.
This is the bottle of wine I drank by myself last night because I was crawling in my skin. You think the resveratrol is good for egg quality? I swear I’m not an alcoholic; I just drank too much coffee. I’m not supposed to be doing either of these things since (1) I have anxiety and (2) I’m supposed to live the immaculate life of a nun to mollycoddle and fortify my shitty ovaries.
Real Housewives marathon anyone? At least those bitches are crazier than me.
I mean…I started the day with the best of intentions! This was my breakfast–eggs, one piece of whole grain toast, no butter, fruit salad of mango and organic berries. I WANT to be good; I do, I do!
But somehow I end up on the couch with cookies and a blanky, reading a bunch of stuff on the internet that makes me feel sad and hopeless.
Ahh, yes, and I started meds today. I am officially “priming” the aforementioned shitty ovaries with Estrace. Soon I shall swell up like a cow while my brain turns to mush at the hormone circus! At least I don’t have to take Prednisone this time around, which couples a remarkable power to bloat with vicious appetite stimulation and makes me want to eat my refrigerator whole.
I will be better tomorrow. I will get off this computer, off this couch. I will wear shoes and a bra today. I will, in a little while…