I used to always keep a pregnancy test in my bathroom. You know, for emergencies. Just in case two forms of birth control (the IUD and a condom) magically failed me against all odds. It’s just another one of my histrionics. Despite the fact that the chance of me ever getting pregnant was probably zero, I still liked taking a pregnancy test every once in a while. Always while in a fit of depression, I would fret mercilessly about how my life was shit and hopefully I’m not pregnant, so I’d take a pregnancy test, and then I’d realize I wasn’t pregnant, and somehow that alleviated a small fraction of my depression because at least I didn’t have to deal with a random fucking baby now.
More recently, my period was three days late and I did that [not so] charming, neurotic thing that I always do whenever it comes pregnancy: full blown panic attack. Luckily I have friends who maintain a pretty decent relationship with reality, so I was reminded that, yes, I can just take a pregnancy test and stop pulling my hair out about whether or not I’m pregnant because what’s the point of that? (The point is that I like to torture myself because my life is going pretty well right now, so if I don’t torture myself, who will?)
So I went to the store, bought a fresh pregnancy test, made my friend cook me dinner, drank an entire bottle of wine and peed on a stick. Shit is stressful as fuck. I realized: there is no right answer here. I’m going to freak out if it’s negative, and I’m going to freak out if it’s positive, and I’m going to freak out if I change my mind and decide to keep not knowing. No wonder I suffer from anxiety – my emotional state is an insufferable, unfathomable paradox.
Anyways, now I know I’m not pregnant, but, yes, I still cried about it because I’m a fucking weirdo. Life is just so complicated.