Hey there folks, it’s katie from motherbumper. For all those looking for Catherine, she is with her family, and spending all her time inside of a hospital environment. As if her situation could be any worse, technology is being completely uncooperative with her and she is unable to get access to the internet or send email. She can receive it but not send it. Like she needed this kind of crap.

Anyhow, she asked me to keep the Betchfest going and of course I said yes – I’d do anything to help out. If you haven’t heard about Betchfest you can read all the details over in The Basement.

The following post is part of the Betchfest exchange and Catherine offered this space so another person could find a safe space to rant and rave – something we all need to do every once and a while.

Why Does It Have to Require So Much Thought?

Notice to my Four Brothers: If you somehow find this, stop reading now and go away. Really. This post references a) my sex life, b) my lady parts and c) tampons. All of which you are happier pretending don’t exist.

Dear IUD.

Listen. We’ve tried to work it out. We’ve given the relationship a fair shake. But clearly it’s not meant to be. Try and change my mind all you want, I’m not having any of it. You had to know the 8 day period was a deal breaker.

I just wish you’d been more honest about the whole thing. You were all, Try me. I’m carefree. Install me and forget about me. I’m like magic! You won’t have to think about birth control ever again. Or at least for the next 10 years. I’m lovable. Made from natural materials. Drug free!

I’m a sucker, I admit it. It sounded too good to be true, but I totally fell for it anyway. Consider what I’d tried/considered before coming to you.

First. The pill. Which I would forget to take. Freudian? Maybe. Because I hate taking pills. And then I would get weirdly moody. It was a bad fit. I was glad when we were ready to have a baby .

Second. The shot. How did I ever try this? And more than once? What am I, a masochist? I used to have to pray and meditate before the doctor visit so that I would be calm enough to face the needle. Not only am I pill averse, I also get freaked out by shots. And. The same drugs the pill used were still messing with my emotions. Not good. Not good at all.

Third. Condoms. Aren’t condoms just back up for when you forget to take the pill?

Fourth. The pull out. Ummmm. Gross.

Fifth. Spermicide. Probably the closest thing to a good relationship with birth control that I’ve had. But it still required too much thinking ahead. And then there was the fact of the 24 hour seepage after use. Oh dear.

Sixth. The Rythym Method. But I thought the point was to prevent pregnancy.

Seventh. Abstinence. Not gonna happen. If it comes to that, I’ll take the 8-day period. And smile about it. (My husband is hot!)

Which finally brought me to you, IUD. And all my friends talked you up. And the doctor said I was perfect for you. And I was so hopeful. And you were so little. And cute. The day I went to meet you, the weather was gorgeous. I felt great. Super positive. Failure didn’t even enter my mind.

Imagine my shock, when within hours of meeting you I was crippled with fever, cramps, non-stop vomiting, and a complete — ummm. let’s call it “cleanse” — as my body tried to reject you. And still. I wanted our relationship so badly! I overcame the rejection. I worked through it. I focused on the positive: no pills! no gellies! no mess!

No mess? The first period came and it was brutal. There isn’t a brand or size or quantity of tampon in the world that could contain the havoc you sent down my birth canal. Clothes were ruined. Car upholstery was ruined. Sofas were ruined. And it just kept going. What was once a simple affair, 2 or 3 days, was now a week plus! Impossible? Sadly, no. Very, depressingly possible. And accompanied by the kind of bloating I thought only existed in commercials.

How did I not run screaming to the doctor right then? Again. I just wanted this to work so badly. I told myself it would taper off. Next time, surely it would only be 6 or 7 days.

It wasn’t.

Now. It’s five months since we met. And I’m nearing the end of yet another blood bath. Without a single unmarred pair of underwear left to my name. I am done. I will call the doctor today and make an appointment to rid my life of your abuse.

Where will I go next? Who can tell? I just turned 34. I’ve still got a long road ahead of me. I’ve been told the snip-snip is the next logical step. But I know myself — I’m not ready to commit to a permanent relationship.

I just don’t want to have to think about this so hard.

Sincerely,
Gabrielle