When Envy Met Gluttony

This is my first confessional Tuesday. I was wondering just how personal I should get here, but then again I don't even know how many people are actually reading my blogs on a regular basis. (Aside from Claire and Gina who consistently leave comments).

Antonio and I have been trying to conceive for more than two years. It was last August I started to see an OBGYN who specialized in reproductive issues. And it was that appointment in August when the word "infertility" first came up.

Antonio was tested: green light, good to go, have fun!
I was tested: sounds of car coming to screeching halt

The doctor says, "You could have all the unprotected sex in the world and you wouldn't get pregnant."

I joke, "Well I wish I had known this when I was younger!"

All joking aside. It is my fault we can't conceive. I undergo further testing as to the exact reason why my body doesn't like to drop eggs. The tests don't tell us why. So I start my first round of Clomid. I'm couch-ridden day one I'm so violently ill. Then come the cramps, nausea, extreme mood swings (even extreme for me folks) and overall body aches. I think of the positive "my body must really be taking to this drug." But the sad fact is my body only took the negative effects of the medicine and none of the positive. An ultrasound confirms my body still didn't release an egg. So next month Doc will up the dosage which means upping the side effects and we'll try again. Meanwhile there will be some stupid teenager accidentally conceiving a child in the backseat of a beat down Chevy.

If it doesn't work out you guys should adopt! Can't. First of all it is much more expensive to adopt a child than to pop one out. We can't afford the lawyers and red tape fees involved. Second because of my history of mental illness the powers that be would never give me a child. They do extensive background checks and I have had three hospitalizations in my adult hood. So once again it's my fault.

Consumed with guilt over our circumstances I start to overindulge in ice cream, cake, cookies, fill in the blank. The majority of the time I don't even enjoy the food I'm eating, I barely even taste it. I'm eating to make myself physically sick. I'm punishing myself for being infertile. Funny enough it took me nine months of binge eating to realize this. It was never about the food, it was about another method for hurting myself. This is no different from when I used to take a knife to my arm.

First step is realizing why. Okay, done. Next step is figuring out how to change it.