I’m starting this blog with a disclaimer this morning. Especially if you are new to this blog, I am a real live person who struggled with the challenges of infertility for six and a half years. Occasionally I discuss my infertility treatment in an angry, sarcastic or even enraged way.
Today’s blog is a bit of a rant. About ME. Not you, not your weight. Not calling anyone else out there fat. Really, it’s about how I felt, while in fertility treatment. So if the word fat upsets you, even in relationship to someone else, ME, than please read a blog from last week or last month. Today’s my rant about my weight gain while trying to conceive and my feelings about myself during that time.
I remember the first time that I joined Weight Watchers. It was because I was on infertility medications (we call them fertility medications now; we did not call them that way back then). I had a set of clothes for when I was doing an infertility cycle and when I was not. My weight fluctuated easily 6-9 pounds with months on fertility medications and months off.
I hated it. I hated being “fat”, but not pregnant. I hated gaining weight, always right around my middle, which made me look pregnant even though I was not. I had never weighed so much in my life and I hated it. I resented it. I joined Weight Watchers because I refused to be fat, but not pregnant.
I knew the difference between fat and pregnant. Fat, I would have nothing to show for it after nine months. Fat was something I was supposed to do something about, to prevent. Pregnant, there would be growing anticipation along with a growing larger body, with a baby at the end.
People who would complain about getting “fat” during pregnancy rarely knew how lucky they were that I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t stand hearing their complaints about their weight gain, their bodies changing, and their supposed “fat”. I truly wanted to scream listening to them complain about everything I dreamed about, worked towards and hoped for. They didn’t seem to know the difference between fat and pregnant.
I longed for the curves and the softening of angles, I dreamed about the larger belly that appeared having nothing to do with bloat or excess weight or medications. I imagined how it would feel to have a baby move within me. Everything that the pregnant belly stood for, I wanted.
So I went to weight watchers and lost 10 pounds. Ridiculously slowly, of course, as I didn’t have that much to lose. Lost about quarter to a half a pound a week, if that. But I did lose it.
For those of you who know me, I rarely use language like “fat”, nor do I focus on external appearance. How we look isn’t who we are, isn’t what we are. We are much more than our physical appearance or how much we weigh. Please understand that this blog is about ME. My craziness, twenty years ago. Not a judgment about you and how much you do or do not weigh.
It was the pregnant belly I wanted. Not the fat or even the lack of fat. It was the sense of control that I wanted if I couldn’t have the pregnant belly quite yet. And so I lost ten pounds, very slowly and safely, waiting for the time that I could gain the weight that meant I was going to have a baby.