Bitter about Birth Control

"Gradually my whole concept of time changed until I thought of a month as having twenty-five days of humanness and five others when I might just as well have been an animal in a steel trap." (Florence King)

I'd be panicking right now (if I was getting any action) and probably making a late-night run to the supermarket for a pregnancy test. But I’m not, so I’m not. That’s where my pseudo-positive outlook ends. My present bitterness oddly began about a year and a half ago, when I finally decided to get on birth control.

As previously stated, I’m a procrastinator. This particular procrastination was entirely justified, however. For reasons I'll avoid elucidating here, I didn’t have a consistent period until I was 25ish. And, so, I’d never had to deal with cramps until then, either. By the time I did have to cope with cramps, I was very conscious of the drawbacks to using the pill as a cramp control method.

Not only did you have to remember to take it every day, you had to take it at the same time every day. I can barely remember to take my keys and wallet with me when I leave the house, I usually wake up late (and never consistently), nor do I ever go to bed at the same time. So the chances of me remembering a little pill at the same time every day were significantly less than zero. Strike one. Strike two: every single girl I knew who had been or was on the pill had her level of crazy (or emo) go up (on a scale of one to ten) about ten points for a few months, at the very least. And some never quite returned to pre-pill sanity levels. Being one of the least stable people I know to begin with, this was the biggest strike. Ignoring the rest of the “minor possible side-effects,” strike three was the possibility of weight gain. The pill gets a "hell no" from me.

The other options: The patch? Only once a month, and four placement options, but 60% more estrogen. No thanks to more hormones. The shot? Only once every three months, but a huge no thanks to the associated “significant loss of bone mineral density” that may or may not be reversible. The implant or an IUD? I wish. . . .Alas, I’m perpetually poor and don’t have $400 to $800 to spend at one time. Ever. The Nuva Ring? Hmmm. . .once a month, and the side effects didn’t look too drastic. After consulting my (new, and improved) doctor, and having her tell me that the Nuva Ring and Mirena are the only options she suggests to her patients, and that both help immensely with cramps and have very few side effects, comparatively, I’m sold.

And she was right. It was amazing. My first month on the ring--after four years of spending three days a month in the fetal position, with a heat pack on both my back and my stomach--I didn’t even have the slightest hint of cramps. I didn’t even need a single Advil—let alone my usual regimen of two Lortab 10s every three hours, just to be able to uncurl and breathe normally. I didn’t go crazy (well, not more than normal) like I’d seen girls on the pill do, either. It was perfect. . . .until, seemingly overnight, my jeans quit fitting, one by one.

I was told it was normal to have some (possibly significant water retention) for a month or two while my body adjusted to the hormones, but that eventually it would subside. So I waited. As I waited, my wardrobe options continued to decline. At an alarming rate. October was the first month I used the ring, and by the end of December, I could only justbarelysqueeeeeze into five of the thirty plus pairs of pants/jeans I own. Each of those five pairs of jeans were either stretchy, or were baggy on me before October. That’s less than 16.7% of my jeans that fit me after two mere months being on the ring.

Twenty pounds, I’d gained. In two months. (That, and more than a cup size). My doctor said that sometimes girls eat a lot more without noticing when they’re on birth control, and that was probably what had happened to me. While statistically it may be true that girls eat more thanks to the hormones, it was certainly not the case in my situation. And certainly I hadn’t eaten enough to gain ten pounds a month. I’m naturally not a big eater. I eat because I have to, not because I like to. In the decade that had passed between high school and starting birth control, I had gained five pounds. And that was from drinking a lot of soda and beer; not from eating. I’d even thought ahead to address that issue. In order to avoid the “possible” side effect of “weight gain,” I had completely quit drinking both soda and beer more than a month before I went to the doctor to get my prescription. (Well done, right?) Yet in two mere months, I managed to gain fifteen pounds more than I had in the ten years prior. What the hell?

Over the next six months, I fluctuated between being five to ten pounds heavier than I was after the initial two months. I was despondent. Even moreso because now only three of the initial five pairs of jeans were either stretchy or were baggy enough to still fit me. And, embarrassingly, even though these jeans fit, they all had the “fat gap” (where the zipper isn’t completely covered, and the fabric gaps below the button because your girth is testing the strength of the zipper teeth).

Even when I started exercising intensely to get rid of the weight, nothing happened. No inches, no pounds lost. Even worse than that, there was no increase in my muscle strength. So, I quit the ring. Almost immediately, five pounds came off. But the twenty pounds and the boobs stayed. (Side note: it turns out that after spending most of my life wishing for bigger boobs, I didn’t want them, once I got them).

So, a year and a half later, I’m back where I started. Not only are my cramps back in full attack, my cycles are erratic enough to worry a normal girl every single month. As icing on the cake, I still only fit in five pairs of pants (which, not only am I tired of wearing, but are showing signs of stress from being worn once every few days for the last year and a half). Hopefully (if I ever save enough to pay for it) when I get an IUD, the story will have a happier (and skinnier) ending. But, for now, I am a bitter, bitter monkey who has only five pairs of pants to choose from.