Swallow the pain down.

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Please don't take me in that room, please, please don't take me in that room. "Teggan Teggan B" the nurse called, emphasising an 'egg' sound instead of the accurate 'tea'. In my apprehensive state I couldn't find the energy required to correct her. Or maybe I didn't care because I knew she was taking me in that room. That room. The same room where I hideously miscarried my baby girl. The same room where my blood decorated the carpet. 

"Distract yourself Tegan", my heart cried, "don't look at the floor". "It's too soon, don't make yourself enviasge that ghastly moment." But I couldn't stop myself. Pregnancy hormones still coursing through my system allowed my emotions to get the better of me. And there it was, my baby, albeit reduced to an ugly stain on the dull grey floor. 

The recent bombarent of harrowing anguish, which has trampled my optimism and buoyant spirit has also inspired rumination in my analytical mind. I guess it's my hearts feeble attempt to rationalise, to question why I had to go through all of this.

Two months ago I was juggling upwards of three appointments per week, alongside deteriating energy reserves, thanks to the hormonal cocktail I was drowning in. But now, there's nothing. All symptoms abated, leaving no obvious traces besides the attainment of an unattractive pouch like belly. Physically, I'm beginning to feel fine. There's no pain tearing away at my insides, no more nausea. Yet mentally, I'm beyond tender. While I know that fatigue, pain and time constraints are certainly no excuse for a celebratory feast. For me, they made the uphill journey to babydom feel worthwhile, authentic, real. It was my reality, one I'd chosen to rapidly devour. 

Sadly, reality altered its recipe, offering up nothing more than naivety free, hard to stomach slices of pie. It's scary because I know it will poison my guts and make me vomit. It's painful because I know I'll never enjoy eating in the same way ever again. But I'm starving, so even though I don't want to eat the muck I've been served, I will. I'll force myself to chew down on my bitter, bitter truth until the sour taste leaves my mouth.  


I had a miscarriage...

No one, not a soul, not a single thing can prepare you for the all consuming pain a miscarriage inflicts upon your body. How can you prepare yourself for giving birth to your dead baby? How can you prepare your heart to deliver a pint sized jelly bean of a baby merely three hours after seeing and hearing her heart pounding on a sonographic screen? More importantly, I want to know why inflict so much pain upon my innocent, desperate self? Why tease me? Why? What gain results after sadistically taunting me with hope and optimism, only to call in a heart smashing wrecking ball two days later? 

Haunting me tirelessly, this is a nightmare I can't wake up from. My mind lingers over the same lurid images, like a broken down projector from the nineties. Miscarriage isn't pretty. It's painful, gory and sudden. Well mine was anyway. The pain experienced was otherworldly, inexplicable. Day in, day out, I witness the blood cascading down my legs  and painting a sad, malovelant artwork on the fertility clinics floor. The nurse scrubbing away at my skin with a wet tissue invokes an uncontrollable whole body shudder session. 

I can't dicipher what hurts more, revisiting this time last week when I was bloated and riddled with morning sickness, or seeing her tiny heart fluttering, which left me feeling indestructible. These pictures replay in my mind over and over, right before I'm yet again reminded of that happiness crushing red trail. I realised at that precise moment that my baby envisioned future was disappearing in front of my eyes. Like a knife imbeding deep in my chest, I think I actually felt my heart break. The only thing I'm certain of is that I'm afraid to close my eyes, scared to sleep, and the emptiness in my stomach encapsulates me in a deafening silence. 

God, universe, world... Is blood what you wanted? Cheers mate, count yourself a winner. Did I whet your barbaric, carnivorous appetite, quench your thirst? Or maybe the three blood saturated hospital blankets weren't an adequate serving size for your insatiable self? Honestly, I'd  prefer to not know. 

In the midst of a miscarriage there's little time to comprehend what's actually happening to you, what you're losing. That reality sets in much later. It sets in once the morphine has worn off, after your morning sickness dissapates and your food cravings subside. But, it well and truly becomes your truth when you catch yourself hiccuping back your tears becuse in conversation you say "that's what I want for Panda" (my baby). Because you forgot, you forgot that your precious panda is gone.You've become that one in four women. You've become that statistic. Miscarriage is now your story.

Eventually the numbness sets in. You go numb because you don't know how you could possibly survive the agony of this horror show. You're unsure whether you can resalvage your life. And there's no hero in your sky. 

Are you fat?

Six am, I wake to “this is a love song, this is a love song”, it’s loud enough to wake me out of my peaceful slumber, yet not so loud to startle me or to start my day on a rough note.I hit snooze. 6:05 
“it’s party time”, my second alarm for the morning, intentionally timed to go off just five minutes after the first. It's fun and motivating because after that extra five minutes of sleep I need to be bursting with energy. I have to be, I’ve got to be at the gym in 15 minutes. I need the gym to aggressively spin out my anxiety laced fear, to cycle away my demons, no matter how temporary.

Like a broken record unable to skip over deeply embedded scars, my inner dialogue barks the same tune. What’s your problem? Do I even have a problem? I swear some days I feel like I’m losing my mind. I try so hard to think of when it happened, the pivotal moment In which I stopped being a stable human being and morphed into a fucking image obsessed nutcase. However, most of the time this thought process just screws with my head even more. I guess that's why I opted for sweet, sweet ignorance. It’s wasn't so difficult once I grasped the hang of it. I studied my options, well I googled them. I asked, "how does a crazy person ignore the fact that their crazy?” and google, being google and  backboned with trust, delivered 135,000 search results. So you can see, obviously I’m educated. Thanks to google, I’d  devised a structural routine to ensure I kept on track, stuck with my goals, worked my body harder and never ever missed a beat. It's called self hate.

Fat, fat, fat. I'm so fucking fat.

I've been a hazard to myself for longer than I dare to reminisce. It's upsetting looking back now and realising all the grief I inflicted upon myself. As if just being me isn't trying enough, I felt it necessary to make myself feel worthless. Looking in a mirror hating every curve, crevice, and mark etched on my skin, I totally fucked up my perception of what a woman should look like. What I should look like. Some days, I still catch myself out staring at other women and thinking they are beautiful,more so than I. I look to other women's thighs to support my own deluded idea of how fat mine are.

It's all my minds fault. My mind is wide open whore. Forget one night stands, my mind is always willing to take a good mental screw. It's my weakest discipline. When I look at the above image, I want to cry. Not simply because I am instantly carried back to that moment, the agony in which I felt when looking at myself in the mirror thinking "I hate my thighs, when did I let myself go?". Moreso because now, months later, kilos heavier, dizzyingly happier, still my eyes veer straight towards those hips. Screw shakira, she doesn't know the first thing about honest hips. They've plagued me since puberty, ceaselessly. I've fantasised about slicing them off with a knife, punched them and squished them down,  if only it were that simple.

 Numbers on clothing labels defined my sense of self worth. When  I was bigger than a six I'd hate myself for failing.  Destruction creating insanity bleeding into pain. Looking back in retrospect its easy to unveil my destructive pattern. When I decided to give up on conceiving a child, I simultaneously made it my mission to walk all over my body in steel capped boots. To show that traitorous infertile bitch that despite everything she'd withheld from me in the past, I was boss. I was reaffirming to myself that I owned my body, thus I could shrink it, shake it precisely to my liking. It was my revenge. My body couldn't, wouldn't produce children, so it was going to be slender. Opting to ignore every prompt for reprieve,I attacked harder, it was the ugliest, sweetest kind of payback. 

Lingering longer than a nightmare. My body angst inhibited my life.  My decisions often revolving around what I could consume, until I no longer cared whether I consumed or not. My mind preoccupied with study and a beaten  down relationship fragmenting into pieces. There was coffee, always coffee. Energised, drugged on my beloved caffeine, I wrapped the stress, the bitter hate, around my heart like a scarf and bounced from one day into the next. Eventually, I bounced off the wall and straight into my grief. Then I gave up. I gave up fighting, I tried liking myself instead. 



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