While my depression is distracted with blocks in a corner, I’ve had some time to think. I started weight watchers two days ago after seeing Christmas pictures of myself and hating each and every one. I’ve gained 50 pounds since my pregnancy with my son. Fifty. Pounds. I feel so much shame admitting that I let myself gain so much weight in a year. I don’t fit in most of the clothes I did even when I was pregnant with Sayre and I hate the way I look. Tonight, while eating my 10 WW point dinner, I thought about why I’d packed on so much weight so fast. The reason I came away with? Self loathing.
My body failed to keep my son alive and it failed to keep my daughter from being so flawed that she died. I punished myself by eating unhealthy foods and in large quantities. I felt ugly on the inside and wanted to make the outside look as unhealthy as I felt on the inside. I feel like my uterus is rotten, incapable of sustaining life. I’m not saying being overweight is ugly, I’m saying I was self destructive and subconsciously killing myself with food. I’m five feet four inches tall. Fifty extra pounds on my frame has some rough consequences.
I developed binge eating as I went along. Every month I didn’t get pregnant, I’d drown my sorrows in food. Usually alone and at night. Friends busy when I was desperate for human contact? I ate. Husband at work and I was feeling miserable and crying in the floor? I ate. Scared that I’ll never have a living child? I ate. I would look in the mirror and beat myself up. I’d tell myself the reason I’m not pregnant again is because I let myself get so damn fat. I told myself I killed my babies. I told myself I want worth living. I told myself I’m a failure in every area of my life.
I would try to eat better for one or two days, then go right back to unhealthy comfort foods. I decided to join WW because I need something that handles the points and calculations for me. That gives me more energy to focus on not hating myself. My mind and I are at war and I’ve called a truce, we’re entering peace talks. I’ve told myself I don’t have to like myself, but I should try to love myself. My body was the only home my babies knew and I’ve let it go to shit. I feel very disposable. My job doesn’t need me, I can’t keep babies alive, and my friends and family would be okay if I was gone. I decided to not do this for anyone but me. I want to not hate waking up in my body every morning.
I’ve been lying in the ring, beaten bloody by life, for a year. It’s time I get up again. I may never have a living child and that has to be okay. I need to move forward. For whatever reason Death took my innocent babies and left me even when I begged to go with them. I don’t know why I’m still alive when they’re dead, but I have to do my best since I’m still here. Time to hit play.