This cycle marks the first time in over six years that I am not taking oral birth control.
This is not in preparation for babies, although that deadline does appear to be approaching rather rapidly. No, this is simply a case of I totally screwed up and didn’t take responsibility to find a new doctor in time to get a new prescription. So. Here we go. I’m going pill-free before I meant to do so. Surprise!
Going off of OBC is incredibly easy — one day you swallow a pill, and the next you don’t. But I’m taking it incredibly seriously. You might even say that I’m terrified. I just feel so… so… naked. My uterus feels naked. Vulnerable. As if the pill was an impenetrable fortress; my invisible high-tech force field, and now all I’m left to defend myself with is a flimsy piece of saran wrap.
Oh, sorry. I got distracted for a minute thinking about everyone who is reeling and clicking away in horror. I mean, look around this page. This right here, this is everything that’s wrong with the internet; people just blathering on about the personal details of their lives and their goddamn bodily functions. WHO WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR REPRODUCTIVE CYCLE, LADY.
Well, I’m guessing you don’t. And I’m sorry, you guys. In my defense, I was raised by two uncouth people who just go around the house farting at will and then making fun of each other for it. I know, I know, we all need more privacy and decency and respect and all that. But it’s just that… well, I have to blog about what’s on my mind. AND MY UTERUS. IS ON MY MIND.
[I can’t mention anything being “on my mind” without immediately riffing on Dre and Snoop’s “Gin and Juice;” THANKS AGAIN FOR YOUR VITAL ROLE IN THE 1990s AS RAP VIDEO DELIVERY SYSTEM, MTV!]
I just ended the last three paragraphs with statements in uppercase. I suppose I know what my writing crutch is now.
BACK TO MY UTERUS.
I am scared. Scaaaaaaaared to go off oral birth control. I know so many people who insist that going off of OBC was the best thing that’s ever happened to them. I trust these people, I really do. It’s just that still have so many fears, all of them completely irrational. Most are based on the concept of reconnecting with my body. A lot of women have reported that they feel so much more “in touch” with their bodies since they’ve gone pill-free.
Dude, I know this goes against common sense and personal responsibility, but I don’t want to be in touch with my body.When my body calls long distance, I refuse to accept the charges. I mark all email from my body as spam. I blocked my body when it sent a friend request on Facebook. Rude, I know. But I’m not really in the mood to listen to any more of its sass.
Look, my lady parts have been a cruel nuisance ever since I had my first period at the tender age of ELEVEN (thanks, rBGH!). I knew enough to know what it was but I was still naive enough to feel unsure, and I really needed someone to tell me it going to be okay and I hadn’t actually done anything wrong, so finally on the third day I haltingly confessed what was happening to my mother and she basically shrugged and handed me a few bucks and told me to walk to the grocery store and buy myself some pads, and so I walked my 11-year-old self to the store and proceeded to stare in terror at a neverending wall of feminine hygiene products until I settled on the stiff ultra-long super-absorbent kind and I carried those suckers to the front of the store and paid the male cashier as my cheeks burned red with embarrassment, and even though that was TWENTY YEARS AGO I still haven’t quite gotten over that, THANKS MOM.
I was fairly happy in my bubble of disconnectedness, but this turn of events is forcing me to face the fact that my “monthly troubles” are going to come back with vengeance anew. I’m so nervous about this, in fact, that I’m consequently preparing myself for the following worst-case scenarios:
- I will pack on a bunch of weight. Yes, I know, people have said that they lost weight when they went off the pill. I don’t want to be let down, so I am steeling myself to gain at least a stone. Maybe three.
- My acne will worsen to the point where I will frequently be mistaken for a giant slice of pizza. I will have to be home by 10:00 every night lest glassy-eyed drunken college boys start gnawing on me.
- I will vacillate wildly between ferocious wolverine, snarling and snapping over the fact that SOMEONE forgot to WATER THE PLANTS; and whimpering puppy, weeping and bleating because the POOR PLANTS are all DROOPY NOW and that’s so SAD WHYYYYY (hiccup).
- My hair will fall out until all I’m left with is a few morose Charlie Brown-like strands. I know, they say you can lose your hair when you’re on the pill, too. So what they mean is either way, I’m completely screwed.
- Having been broken out of the stultifying box of regularity, my cycle will choose to express its personality via jazz hands and surprise ninja attacks. Will this “month” be 24 days long, or 32? Will I break out in triple pepperoni pizzaface on the day I stand up in my friend’s wedding? WHO KNOWS! The endless options are dizzying!
- “Aunt Flo” will cease to be a demur trickle and become a raging torrent.
So far, all that’s happened is a series of headaches. Seriously. Five straight days of them. I was also feeling highly irritable, but that might have been from the HEAD HURTYNESS. Awesome. I’m on pins and needles to see what happens next! Maybe I’ll sprout two heads and quit my day job to join the circus!