Wallow

My first pregnancy was good. I had a neat little bump, I could still fit into most of my pants till my last trimester. Giving birth was quick, the pain bearable. Post-natal depression did bite me in the arse for a while, but things got better after I got used to the body aches, the headaches from lack of sleep, the interrupted sleep night after night.

Frankly, what got me through it was realizing that I was losing weight. Somehow, no matter what I ate, the weight was coming off. My clothes got looser, thin people clothes like chiffon skirts look good on me, for once.

Waking up three times a night? At least I was getting thinner. Having daily shoulder pains from breastfeeding? At least I look good in clothes I like.

My second pregnancy has been a huge blow. Health-wise, I was good. But I gained weight faster, ate more, and just felt like a hippo the entire time. Giving birth was still reasonably quick, but the pain was more intense (which I blame the OGBYN, but that's another post altogether). I was better equipped during recovery, resting on the knowledge that all the suckiness do eventually go away. But the bleeding nipples did bring me down for a couple of weeks. That, and the fact that I barely lost any weight since giving birth.

Six months in, and I still can't fit into my normal clothes. Not even my glorious thin clothes, just the ones I used to wear before I got married even. I know it's so terrible to put one's worth based on one's looks, but whatever. I might as well admit it myself. I am upset about how I look. There are tons of alternative media nowadays encouraging women of all shapes and sizes to love themselves, mostly with pictures of women of all shapes and sizes in their underwear. It's supposed to be empowering, but I just feel... nothing.

I don't have to see those. I know those. The stretch marks, the lumpy hips, the flabby thighs. They stare back at me whenever I walk past the mirror. They make their presence known when another one of my normal underwear burst at the seams. When I lift up my shirt to nurse my baby, and half of my muffin top is hanging off my too-tight pants.

It is as if Stretch Mark and Flabby Skin is saying, oh did we not get you the first time? We'll give you a double dose just to make for it. Sorry for the delay.
Then do something about it. I can hear it already. Quit whining. Exercise. Eat less. DO SOMETHING.

I know what I have to do (or NOT do). But right now I just want to mourn the demise of my former, thinner, prettier self.