When I was younger, I loved my body because no one else did. I loved my body because if I didn’t, I would have been swallowed up in depression and self-loathing… two things that never came natural to a ball of sunshine like me. The challenge this time is different.
Tomorrow, I go to see my OB. In the “about” section of this blog, I wrote that I have had 2 miscarriages in the last year. The first was this past September, and the second was this past Thursday/Friday… I believe. At this point in time there is still a .001% chance that I am still pregnant. What. The. Fuck.
When I had my first miscarriage, I already knew there was no longer a heartbeat. About a week ago, I started spotting- not enough blood to make me believe I was going to miscarry, but any amount of color created flash backs to this past fall. I had an ultrasound last Wednesday and my husband and I were ready to work with whatever the result might be. The fetus was still so small that it didn’t have a detectable heart beat. It was either non-viable and I was about to have a miscarriage, or it was just too small to tell and the bleeding was quite normal- as it is in 20% of pregnancies. The doctor told me to come back in a week.
Having been through one miscarriage already, I believe I had another one this past weekend. If there is still a baby in there, it held on through one HELL of a storm.
I have been reflecting on the moment’s I’ve had positive pregnancy tests this year. When I had one last Summer, my first thought was: “You fat, depressed piece of shit… how the HELL are you going to carry a baby… no wonder the maternal mortality rate is so high- it’s because of overweight women like you.” I was shocked at where my head space went and decided I had to be mindful of my psyche have try my best to have a healthy pregnancy. I was so close to the circle of life- after losing my father, I would be able to bring another gift of love and light to the world. I attached a lot of meaning and symbolism to that baby and should it have been born, that would have been too heavy a weight to bare. I was very aware of the chances of miscarriage and a few cards were stacked against me. These statistics sat in the back of my mind for 10 weeks until I went in for my first OB appointment and there was no heartbeat. I didn’t enjoy ANYTHING about that particular pregnancy, but certainly didn’t want it to end so traumatically. Want to hear something trippy? When we measured the fetal development, it had stopped at 9 weeks, 4 days- which was the same day we had that crazy fucking Solar Eclipse.
3 1/2 weeks ago when I had another pregnancy test, I was so excited. Not a single nasty thought went through my mind. I have been exercising regularly for over a month now, and have been making better decisions about my diet. I told myself that even if I did miscarry, heaven forbid, that I was going to enjoy EVERY SECOND OF THE PREGNANCY. I didn’t want to hurt myself by running tapes of disgusting messages again. I bought some expensive ass prenatal vitamins, started a food and exercise journal which I used religiously! I felt strong, in control and care free in that particular head space and was truly taking care of myself. I really didn’t think I was going to miscarry again. The miscarriage happened during that crazy blood moon/super moon. The moon was huge and seemed to mocked me through my bathroom window. All I could say was “Fuck You”.
I already fucking know that I have to keep up with my commitment to a healthy lifestyle. Duh. I also already fucking know that 2 miscarriages in a row points to it being because I am overweight. THAT, my friends, IS SOUL CRUSHING. Yes, yes… it could be because of my hormone levels, but I can connect the dots. Overweight women produce extra estrogen. Progesterone levels must rise when you are pregnant and keep the estrogen in check, but if estrogen has been overly produced, progesterone can’t do it’s job. So, I am fertile as hell with a regular cycle, but for some reason, my body hasn’t supported 2 pregnancies in a row…
Sooooooo, let me tell you… loving my body right now is really hard. Like, harder than it’s ever been. Harder than when I got my first set of stretch marks in 7th grade, harder than when I was called a “beast” in high school, harder than when I realized I would probably look fat in my wedding dress this past February, harder than when a man told me point blank that we had something special, but that he wasn’t sexually attracted to me (this was after I lost 60 lbs, mind you). It’s easy to take 10 minutes to cry before looking around and saying, “Bitch, I am FABULOUS”. And it was always VERY TRUE. I have always had confidence, a smile, a wonderful job, a group of soul friends. I could quickly rally enough self love and perspective to help me strut again.
I sit here now, sad, overweight, beat up, hormonally confused and unable to say “Bitch, I am FABULOUS”. I’m mad at my body and I’m mad at myself.
Let’s take a big breath and dig just a little deeper, shall we?
When you have been truly shaken to your core by tragedy or loss, frilly words like fabulous don’t matter anymore. I have been stripped down to the essence of my being and here’s what I know. I am brave, strong, confident, resilient, and full of purpose.
I believe this is the next mountain I must climb. It’s going to take a lot of work, but I hope my body can reflect who I am on the inside.