There are two end-of-the-world crimes women can commit in America:

1. Being fat
2. Being childless

Well, thrown on the cuffs and lock me away, cause I’m guilty, guilty, guilty.

We’ll talk about the second one first. I know several women that have made the decision not to have children, for a variety of reasons—reasons I don’t know, don’t need to know, and are none of my business. In fact, I spent much of my life believing that I didn’t want children. When I told my high school girlfriends that my husband and I had started trying, they were shocked. I was vehement in my youth; adamantly opposed to “bringing a child into this world. It’s selfish!” I’m not sure what’s changed; maybe there is some truth to the whole biological clock thing, or maybe, just maybe, it’s because I was lucky enough to fall in love with a man that will make the best father the world has ever seen. I grew up fatherless, and convinced that all men were scum and left their children. I know my husband won’t leave (unless I do something really egregious, like have sex with a whole football team or something—not likely, cause I hate football), since I told him to leave about 565465 times in the first two years we were together, and he didn’t.

I was reminded of my youthful vehemence recently when I read my work at a pro-choice poetry reading put on by a student group at a local university. I read poems both about the choice I had to make at 19, and a recent poem about my struggles with infertility. The three young women who read after me ranted at great length about how selfish having babies is “in this world where humans are cattle.” I didn’t take this personally, thank god, but I remember being so young, so sure, so… definite. Was it easier back then? I don’t remember. Course, I was drunk a lot.

Anyway, deciding not to have children can be just as brave as having them. Women that don’t are frequently hassled by strangers and family and are forced to defend themselves. Now if I were arrested for not having a child, I’d probably get off since I’m at least trying. But there is still a certain smugness some people have. You can see the comments in their eyes: “Why did you wait so long? You’ve been married for eight years after all. Now you’ll probably have to adopt. Serves you right.”

So now let’s talk about that other great crime, being fat. I don’t remember NOT being fat, although most of my early life, I wasn’t. By third grade, though, boys had learned that if you called a girl fat, no matter what size she actually was, it would hurt. So when the playground was ringing with cries of “Fatso! Fatso!” I believed it—regardless of the reality of my weight, which was COMPLETELY NORMAL for my age. In some ways, it may have even been a prophecy I felt compelled to fulfill.

In middle school, I began dieting for the first time. When I look at pictures of myself at that age, I’m completely flabbergasted. I want to reach through time and shake that young girl hard and make her wake up—and while I’m back there, slap my mother for letting me diet before I even hit puberty (a fact that has been shown in studies to cause obesity in adult women).

In high school, when I began earning my own money, I was able to buy myself junk food. And I did. And I began to gain weight. By my senior year, I was in a size 14/16 and the year after high school (after I moved out of my mother’s house and in with my young alcoholic boyfriend—yeah!) I kept going up. Most of my adult life I’ve been wearing fat clothes and been over 200 pounds.

I have had lengthy periods of time where I was comfortable with my body. Years even. Once I moved from a small mid-western town (where I’d gone to high school) to a large east coast city, I was surprised to discover that my weight wasn’t as much of an issue to men. I first learned this from a very reliable source—my garbage men. I would be leaving for work as they collected the garbage and they would all say “Mmm, mmm, MMM!” which was about the best compliment I’d ever heard. Then, I discovered bars, and suddenly found myself the proud owner of a series of micro-relationships and one-night stands. Someone wanted me! In fact, several someones! Maybe not more than once, but heck! Who cared? I was an alcoholic woman living in a city full of men that wanted to have sex with me. I was able, for a little while, to love my body.

One of those micro-relationships (which meant you met at the bar and slept together more than once) turned into a real relationship, and suddenly I was faced with my body. This particular guy wasn’t exactly supportive. He was the kind of guy that answered the never, never should be asked question “Am I the best sex you’ve ever had?” with “Well, there was this time with two girls…” Plus he watched porno. A lot of porno. Three + movies a week. There is nothing more effective at creating body shame than porn.

So I joined a gym and discovered the power of exercise bulimia. I would work out for three or four hours and then go home and eat for two. It was insane. I had no idea back then that I was an addict (or that I was a drunk) or that over-exercising could be a problem.

When that relationship ended, so did the gym membership. I went back to whoring it up at the bars, until I found myself head over heels in love with the man that would become my husband.

This man loves me no matter what size I am. I’ve been well over 300lbs in this relationship, and he still would whisper into my ear how sexy I was. This is no chubby chaser either—all the other women in his life have been scrawny and petite. In this relationship, I was able to find sobriety, and sanity about food (if you’d like to know more about how this happened, please email me). So I was able to fall in love with my body again—it was strong, thick, and beautiful to me.

And this lasted until I began to try to get pregnant. I felt so betrayed by my body as month after month passed with no pregnancy. It wasn’t long until I began to eat more again, both as comfort and revenge. I regained weight I’d lost, and began a long cycle of unforgiving self-hatred. I hated myself for being fat; I just knew, somehow, that being fat caused my infertility--even when the doctors told me otherwise.

When I was at my highest weight, I began to have breakthrough bleeding. Basically, I got my period every two weeks, so I only had two week I didn’t bleed a month. I finally went to my gynecologist’s office, and was seen by the world’s smallest Korean woman. I swear, during my pap smear, she had to go in up to the elbow. After nothing was revealed during the exam, she squeaked, “Maybe it’s your weight. Severely obese women produce too much estrogen!” I was horrified and convinced she was wrong. But after the weight began to come off, sure enough, my cycle returned to normal.

I was a proud member of Weight Watchers when I began taking fertility hormones. Nothing big, no injections or anything, but Clomid and progesterone. My ability to lose weight came to an abrupt halt, and in fact, no matter how much I exercised or how little I ate, I GAINED. It was awful.

So I resigned myself to getting even fatter, all in pursuit of having a baby. So in my head a constant war rages on—“I’m fat, that’s why I can’t get pregnant” battles with “I can’t lose weight cause I’m trying to get pregnant”. Now, I just try to practice sanity about food—don’t eat six bags of M&M’s from the vending machine cause my beta was negative; eat just two. So far, it seems to be ok.