sometimes, i convince myself i have been pregnant before
reflections on infertility + your weekly poem/song
Several times in the last decade, I found myself in the family planning aisle of my local drugstore, debating whether I could spend a few extra dollars on the Clearblue digital pregnancy test instead of continuing to deal with the terrible guess-the-lines tests.
I’ve known for a long time how babies are made. I also knew that many times, men see a woman’s body as a vessel — not just for a child, but also for their egos. When I was 18, I would do anything to be loved, even if it meant compromising my safety for it. What’s love without sacrifice? I’d think to myself as yet another man persuaded me into unprotected sex. I can’t be loved if I don’t give them what they want.
Despite the overt coercion, I was careful. I rarely missed a dose of birth control and always had Plan B on deck, when I could afford it. By the time I met the man who would become my husband, I joked that I must be infertile. I’d had friends who’d had pregnancy scares, who’d had successful pregnancies, who’d had abortions. I’d always been far more reckless than them and somehow remained baby-less.
If I could get pregnant, it would’ve happened already, I joked with my would-be husband when I was 20. And yet, I continued to take at least four pregnancy tests a year until I was 25, just in case I was wrong. If it makes you feel better, he’d say.
I knew my body was different. It didn’t act like the rest of my friends’ bodies. I would go over a month without a period, leading me to believe that it could be an early sign of motherhood. Then, my period wouldn’t stop for months, leading me to consider if I had passed what would have made me a mother.
The body doesn’t know if a traumatic event happened ten years ago or yesterday, my therapist said during one particularly heavy session. It just remembers that something bad happened and can sometimes react as if it’s happening again for the first time.
My therapist says this a lot, usually after I recall a recent trigger or during somatic work. That day, we were talking about how sometimes, I’ll feel a cramp deep in my belly where my uterus used to be, and it’s so bad that I forget there’s nothing there to hurt me.
My physical therapist explained this phenomenon to me. Your nerves remember being in a constant state of stress from before the surgery, she said. It’ll take some time for them to calm down and realize the threat is no longer there.
As someone who spent most of their life wanting to die, I always assumed that my brain was the organ inside of my body that caused me the most pain. It turns out my uterus, the only thing (besides my body itself) qualified to carry life, was another part of myself I had to surrender to.
I went through several phases of grief after the hysterectomy. The first was a very strange, shame-filled spiral consisting of nonsensical thoughts that convinced me that my inability to say no to men in my teen years was what caused my endometrial lining to start growing into the muscle walls of my uterus. Those men — especially the ones approaching thirty who wanted to sleep with teenage me — should have been the ones to know better, but I never cared what happened to my body. This is what you get for letting them use you, I thought to myself. What you are feeling now is the pain you couldn’t feel then. I blamed religious trauma for this one.
While it was true that I was finally starting to process the deeper emotional pain from my unwanted sexual experiences, I was too smart to convince myself that several instances of coercion were the cause of my uterine condition. After I shook myself out of that irrational thought pattern, the phantom pain of my uterus began to present differently during my second stage of post-hysterectomy grief.
Seemingly overnight, each time I saw a child in public, I wept. I cried at airports, on buses, in the doctor’s office. You never wanted children until you knew you couldn’t have them, I told myself. Now that the threat of motherhood is gone, your nerves see infertility as the source of the pain.
How can I tell the difference between old pain and new pain? I asked my therapist.
You have to be in your body, they responded.
Today, I am reentering my body with such force that the most basic emotions hit me like king tides. Grief anchors me, and happiness drowns me. I am beginning to understand why I ran from my emotions for so long.
I used to want children — years ago, before meeting my husband and the men before him. My imaginary children’s names are still written in my elementary school journals. I imagine this child-wanting version of myself was the part of me who routinely showed up in my late teens, restocking pregnancy tests under my sink out of fear that I’d finally get exactly what I wanted.
Every pregnancy test I ever took was negative — even the ones at Planned Parenthood, in urgent care, and at the hospital. Part of me strongly believes that I may have been pregnant before. There were times I had the swollen breasts, the morning nausea, the absence of blood.
Some days, I don’t think I ever got close to pregnancy, and I just wish that I did so that I can believe that my body has never betrayed me — only I have betrayed it.
Now, in the permanent absence of blood, there will never be another with my blood. To quote Phoebe Bridgers, I know it’s for the better. In the years I had a uterus, I was too sad to have been a good mother. It wouldn’t have been good for anyone. It was for the better.
I heard parenthood comes with endless sacrifices. Parenthood itself was my sacrifice. Reflection, healing, health, and happiness were the consequences.
**note about AWP**
i’m at AWP this week — writers! readers! if you’re here, come say hi! i’d love to say hi!
write with me in new york this summer!
applications for the Interrogation Writing Retreat (Aug 15-17 in Grand Island, NY) are still open! spots are filling up (we are SO excited with how this group is shaping up). feel free to reach out if you have questions, or you can check out our faq.
poem of the week:
Obligations 2 by Layli Long Soldier
song of the week:
Waiting Room by Phoebe Bridgers
submission opportunities for writers
lit mags/journals/full manuscripts
Black Fox Lit Mag (Deadline: March 30)
Indiana Review (Deadline: March 31)
Shō Poetry Journal (Deadline: March 31) — read my poems published by them!
Variant Lit (Deadline: April 5)
New Flash Fiction Review (Deadline: April 15)
Cicada Creative Magazine (Deadline: May 31)
residencies/fellowships
A Public Space Writing Fellowships (Deadline: March 31)
The American Library in Paris Visiting Fellowship (Deadline: April 1)
Mt. San Angelo Residencies - Virginia Center for the Creative Arts (Deadline: May 15)
all the love, all the warmth, all the light,
housekeeping:
icymi: i made a doc full of book recommendations for people who want to read more poetry but don’t know where to start!
don’t forget to complete your one click today to support aid efforts in Palestine
unfold: poetry + prose, is available on amazon, bookshop, indigo, b&n, or wherever you get books <3
you can still buy paper girl from amazon, barnes & noble, indigo, or your local indie.
i love you. and i see you. and i am so glad you're here.
who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.
who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent.
if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741
S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)
Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237
RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673
The Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
Your therapist is always dropping BARS. I loved this one. Thank you for sharing it.