I don’t have any faith in my body. In fact, for a long time, I’ve actively disliked my body. I’m not talking about my breast size, or shape, or weight, or the look of my feet, but the inner workings of my body.
You see, nothing really works like its supposed to. I dislike my body when workouts don’t reap rewards commensurate to my peers. I dislike my body when anxiety levels result in yeast infections and UTIs. I dislike my body when it stores fat like a chipmunk preparing for hibernation. I dislike my body when my hormones shift and I exhibit male pattern hair loss. I dislike my body when I get another cystic pimple on my back due to increased androgens. I dislike my body when, during a typical cycle, I exhibit multiple LH surges complete with wild mood swings. I dislike my body when another 35 days pass with a negative pregnancy test. I dislike my body when I take all the appropriate actions and precautions and still manage to produce an unhealthy egg that results in miscarriage. I dislike my body when I can’t even start bleeding as a warning of an unhealthy pregnancy. I dislike my body.
As you might have guessed, this isn’t so good for my mind-body connection. In fact, I often refer to my body as a separate being from my consciousness. It is that thing. My therapist of old would not be pleased. Or, perhaps, she wouldn’t be surprised at all.
Because of this, I also don’t trust my body. This is why I opted for the D&C in lieu of a natural miscarriage. I didn’t have any faith that my body would be able to expel an itty-bitty tiny baby. Why would it? It hasn’t done much of anything well in the past 24 months despite the cosseting, pampering, expensive treatments.
Three days ago my body surprised me. I ovulated. I was expecting this miscarriage process to throw my hormonal balance completely out of whack. I was prepared to not ovulate for months and months. But my body surprised me and I ovulated three days ago. I find myself in the odd position where I am proud of my body. Go body!