I’ve just got home from the doctor’s and am curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea and an old episode of How I Met Your Mother (which tbh the more I have on as background noise the more I sort of maybe kind of like it…).
I’ve just pulled off my jeans and boo thang gold loafers and replaced them with floral pyjama bottoms and a new pair of bright pink birthday slippers.
And sitting in front of me is a little prescription.
A little prescription that fills me with as much anxiety and sadness and fear as it does excitement and hope.
Y’see, I’ve been sitting on a wee secret these past few weeks – and nope, it’s not pregnancy so you can close those Zara Baby tabs you’ve just opened – in fact, it’s in the complete other direction.
I, my sweet darling internet pals, am going back on the pill.
No, you’re freaking out.
I’ve made no secret on this blog that I’m not a big fan of The Pill. I mean, I love what it stands for – lots of sex and no unplanned pregnancies – but for me the reality meant a heck of a lot of mood swings, and the older I got, and the more heinous Daily Mail articles I read (soz not soz), the more I felt like it wasn’t for me.
I was freaked out about the unknown long-term effects and the idea of putting unnecessary hormones and laboratory manufactured things into my body without really needing to (says the girl who drinks cans of Diet Coke like it’s a magical potion that’ll turn me into Margot Robbie).
It’s been *approximately* two years and three months since I threw away my last pill packet and started my voyage into an unknown territory.
I’ve had period pain for the first time in my life (although nothing a hot water bottle and packet of Ibuprofen can’t hold my hand through), I’ve had periods just as regular as before, although my cycle went from 28 days to 30 days WOAH HOLD ON BODY STOP DOING KER-AZY THINGS, and my skin – well my skin has erupted.
It started as a spattering of spots on my chin. Nothing I couldn’t deal with so long as I y’know cleansed, and took actual care of my skin. But over time the spots have grown in force, like an army desperate to claim my face as their new kingdom.
When I had my OSKIA facial a couple of months back, the beauty therapist asked me about the ‘rash’ on my chin. And man, I wish it was just on my chin, now it’s spreading into my cheeks and oh god I am so thankful 7 layers of foundation can make you look mildly cute in an outfit photo or selfie.
And so, back at the start of September, I made the call. I made the appointment.
I actually cried afterwards. This is not a joke. I cried.
I cried because I felt like I was taking a step backwards in life. Evolution says hey hun you’re 27 where’s your baby. My body says hey hun you’re 27 where’s your baby. And I’m like hey world, I’m 27 and going back on the pill.
I felt like whilst I was succeeding in other areas of my life, I was falling back in the one area it sometimes feels is the most important area.
And even today as the nurse was going through the booklet with me about all my side effects and how the pill works (I had a really nice nurse btw who didn’t judge me or act like I was super crazy and reckless for not already being a slave to the pill), and she was telling me about how my body won’t release an egg every month, I felt sadness.
That was my over-riding emotion.
I’m not ready for a baby. We’re not ready for a baby. And it’s OK to not quite be there yet, but at the same time it feels like there’s a monster hidden in my brain who tells me the opposite. Call it some sort of vulgar body clock or something, but I tell you what, it can absolutely do one.
It tuts at me and judges me and points at its watch and tells me to get a move on, tells me I’m falling behind.
So here I am, sitting with a little box of pills in a prescription bag from Boots in front of me because it felt like my only option. I tried other prescription medicines last year and nothing touched the acne growing angrier by the day.
And so, I’ve been prescribed an unknown pill, one that I’ve never tried before. It’s supposed to be good for skin. So I’m excited that maybe one day in the not too distant future, my skin might go back to it’s glowy glory days of Sixth Form, but also apprehensive that WHAT IF I TURN INTO A PSYCHO BITCH AND CHRIS DOESN’T WANT TO BE WITH ME.
So yeah, watch this space. I’ll keep you updated and give you a head’s up if I suddenly spout an extra arm or something…