Dear Birth Control:

“For birth control I rely on my personality.”
– Milt Abel

Hey. How’ya doing? You good? You look good. Work going well? Glad to hear it.

Just so we're clear, I honestly believe you are one of the greatest, most important, and most influential scientific and medical developments in the history of the world. But...

Well, Birth Control, you know how fond I am of you. I like to think we’re pals, you keeping me baby-free until I choose and everything. I really do appreciate it and I know not all women are as lucky as I am to have the options you give me. But, Birth Control, you’re kind of sucking these days. Now I don’t want to poison our relationship, but really I think you need to start treating me a bit better.

See, I’ve gained 20 pounds since marriage. And I don’t think it’s entirely my fault. I work out regularly and am conscientious about my diet, after all, I’m not a teenager anymore, I’m aware of it and try to eat accordingly. Lots of salads, lean protein and a hamburger once a month if that. I admit a weakness to deep fried potatoes, but I simply avoid them and other such badness by staying away from temptation. I’ve reworked eating plans several times and cut back on/out everything remotely bad, upping veg intake and forgoing sugar. And yet, when I weighed myself in Los Angeles, I was at 140. I’m (barely) five feet tall, and weighed 120 pounds a year ago. Un-bloody-acceptable.

And speaking of Los Angeles, do you know how humiliating it is for your father-in-law to find you on your hands and knees in the dirt by the dumpsters emptying your stomach of its contents while on vacation? Before I got on you, Birth Control, I had a migraine maybe once a year in times of deep stress. First few months our our marriage I got one every once and a while. Then once a month. I’m up to almost once a week now.

Like this.

Do you know what a migraine feels like? Like a sociopath stabbing one repeatedly in the eye while jumping up and down on one’s stomach, banging a mallet against one’s skull. The slightest light or noise hurts like the Furies and any movement means careening to the bathroom to rid oneself of whatever food or liquid one has managed to keep down thus far. It means dehydration, hours of dry retching, and the shakes for two days after. It means pure, unadulterated misery.

And finally, I have been experiencing random explosions of irritation at people. Not mild eye-rolling, but brief yet intense feelings of wanting to rip some people’s heads off. Roller coaster rides of rage. These have been increasing along with those migraines we just talked about, and I don’t think the two are unconnected.

None of this existed before you and I got involved, Birth Control, so it’s pretty simple to draw a few connections and conclusions. If, in spite of self awareness and attempts to correct the problems, things keep getting worse, I think I’m justified in leaving you for one of your pharmaceutical cousins.

So, Birth Control, you’re on notice. I’m reworking my diet/exercise regime again one more time, but if I don’t lose the weight, the headaches, and the desire to kick baby seals, you and I are through.

Love,
C.

12 thoughts on “Dear Birth Control:”

  1. Oh how I DON’T miss those days…though I do find myself with most of those symptoms on a daily basis anyway, namely migraines and baby seal kicking…does this mean that I suck as a human being?

  2. You gave me a heart attack! Next time you title a blog post “Dear birth control,” please remember your darling friend might interpret the title to mean you are carrying an heir, at which point she would be terribly irate that she had to find out ONLINE!

    I have to agree with you on the weight-gain thing,; went through it during the second year of pancreatitis when I only ate simple carbs. 120 to 140: un-bloody-acceptable. Keep puking, and you’ll eventually lose it again, albeit not in a healthy way. If it helps, I always think your sense of fashion is superb, if not bordering I’m-jealous-slash-envious.

    Also, Janssen’s counsin may be right.

    1. Darling, you know I’d never tell you of the impending birth of an heir in such a crude manner! Naturally you’ll be the royal godmother, I wouldn’t wait for you to find out from some peasant…

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