My ovaries
Because your past selves live inside you (either addressed or repressed), you can have the perspective of your current self alongside those of all your younger selves. And so, there are moments when you can be both grieving and smiling.
Or, at least, that’s what I’ve found. My life, unplanned, is expansive in a way that a planned life could never be. It is also a disappointment to The Sadist.
Meet The Sadist: “Who are you and what is it that you want?” “I’m a young version of you. I plan to toy with you. I think you are weak. I think you could not live up to the plan that I created. You tried and you failed and I can’t let you forget that. You are weak.” “Stop Sadist!” “I will not and cannot.” “Again, I’ll ask, what is it that you want?” “I want you to be strong.” “Sadist, I am strong and sometimes I am weak, but is it not bold to embrace weakness? Let me tell you all the ways I am strong.”
The Sadist is me and The Sadist aims to harm me. In turn, the Sadist will harm herself. She is a 15-year-old girl who I’ve fought with and called a b****.
I’ve always sensed that the world was wrapped around me, on all sides, like a boa constrictor. Societal expectations hold me together so that I look like a woman instead of a collection of particles.
My Dr. told me how these societal norms came to be. The rate at which women die giving birth increases significantly with age. Today it’s possible to give birth into middle age, but years of natural selection build the female body to avoid childbirth later in life. Quality and quantity of eggs drop off starting at the age of 36 (for most women) as a defense against death. But you don’t have to know these statistics to know that you have to have children before you’re 36. The world makes sure you know that.
It took me $15,789 to meet The Sadist. 8 transvaginal ultrasounds alongside 8 one vial blood draws. 36 self-injections.
Did I really need to know her that bad?
I wonder if – all the time I spent at the Dr’s office. All the time I spent deciding what to do about my aging eggs. All the time I spent earning the $15,789 could not have more efficiently been spent searching for a husband. The Sadist believes it could have. All the hours I spent creating this version of myself, the one that I love and she hates.
It all comes back to the husband. The one I don’t want. The one that will give me a title that makes my skin crawl (wife). The one who maybe won’t be right; the right personality, sentiment, gender. But, if I’d spent more time looking for him, I probably never would have realized that I didn’t want him. Isn’t that also a satisfactory outcome?
Again, The Sadist has her point. “And life would be easier,” she taunts, “look at the bruises on your belly from the injections. Of course, it would be easier.”
They say that a few days in you feel bloated and unwell. “You feel like your ovaries have been replaced with softballs.”
My extraction is tomorrow, I’ve felt just fine. I feel just fine. “The only thing that doesn’t feel fine, Sadist, is you. My calm, my energy, my quad muscles, my threesome, my bridesmaid speeches, my time in India, my apartment, my meditation, my life. These are the things I won’t give up to be on your path. How does that feel?”
“It will be hard to let go of my dreams,” The Saidist admits.
“I know,” I console, “It was hard for me too.”