A lot of things make me want to die. When girls who are NOT prettier than me get more Instagram likes than I do, people who don’t have an identity outside of their significant others, when people breathe too loud, you know, normal stuff. But out of all of these things that could potentially kill me, I am certain there is one thing that absolutely will put me six feet under. And that is, convincing myself that I am pregnant. Always.
I’ve been dealing with this disease for about two and a half years now. Symptoms include; severe anxiety and depression when you notice the slightest amount of weight gain, intense fearfulness regarding what a shit father the dad would be (if you even know), constant body analysis to determine whether or not you are enduring period cramps or if you just ate way too many tacos, and groping your boobs three times a day to see if they are hurting yet because you should be producing milk in those things. I would be lying if I said the road to recovery was easy and that there are always people to support you along the way. Times get tough. Despair sets in. And at times, all you have is the glimmering hope of the pull out method.
I’m not overly sexually active, unfortunately, which makes this even more unbearable. I recycle through about three different partners and have blackout sex on average, once a month. There are a few things mathematically wrong with this equation:
1. The linear data suggests that if I keep repeating this experiment, I must get some pleasure out of it. Wrong. The sex with these guys is so terrible I have to black out which means it’s not good enough to endure the misery of a pregnancy scare.
2. Statistically, the data is skewed, and the probability of pregnancy is low. If I’m having sex once a month, and the “experiment” is not “complete” inside my body, chances are the experiment will fail, right? Doesn’t matter. If someone humps me twice, my null hypothesis is that I’m pregnant with twins.
3. Calculating ovulation doesn’t work when you don’t know how to fucking calculate your ovulation, no matter how many times you try to teach yourself or look it up on WebMD.
Unfortunately, this disorder affects millions of women throughout the world, and causes imminent stress on friendships and relationships. In a recent survey done by me, when you freak out to your friends 45 months in a row about your impending doom, 100% of them will think you are annoying, tell you to shut up, and suggest you get on birth control. And perhaps you should. It’s not normal to start calculating real time based on your sex life. It’s not May, it’s 13 days since you last had sex with James and should have started your period by now. And that’s when you have lost the psychological warfare. You cry yourself to sleep. Imagine how your life is going to be so over once your mom finds out you got knocked up. Start to understand how unmanageable life will be when you have to be sober for nine months. And then, when all seems lost, a beacon of hope breaks through the slaughtering of your uterus. Your period has arrived.
Until next month, James..