I hate my body. Not because it’s fat and not because it’s thin. Not because it’s fast and not because it’s slow. Not because it’s strong, and not because it’s weak.
I hate my body because of what it can’t do, not because of what it can. This body cannot carry another baby. This body cannot carry life without the risk of taking the quality of mine. And more importantly, the quality of my daughters mother. The quality of my husbands wife. I know this. I accept this.
Except I don’t. Except sometimes I’m ‘late’, and I entertain a fantasy. A fantasy that I’m pregnant, and it’s OK, it’s meant to be. That I have another chance to feel my stomach swell, to feel the kicks, to feel life, squirming inside of me. That I wont go blind, that my body will not fail me. That my daughter will get a brother or sister, my husband will get another daughter or a son. That I will get another chance. That it will all work out just fine.
Except it doesn’t. Because I’m not pregnant. Because I can’t be. Because chances are it wont be OK. Chances are I would go blind. So I think, when I realise that I am not accidentally pregnant, I am supposed to be relieved.
Except I’m not.