Stigmata

It took 33 weeks, but I now officially have stretch marks on my belly.

And I am super pissed off.

SUPER DUPER IMMENSELY PISSED RIGHT THE FUCK OFF.

I don't know why this has come as such a shock to me. And I don't know why I'm so fucking mad about it. Maybe because it took so long I thought I had escaped them. Or maybe because none of my other friends who have been pregnant along with me didn't get one damned mark, I figured I would be lucky too.

BUT I GOT THEM AND NOW I HATE MYSELF.

I told my husband to divorce me now if he thinks he won't find me attractive after the baby is born. He laughed and said I was beautiful and didn't care if the stretch marks went all the way up to my eyes. I cried and called him a liar and told him I would stab him in the chest and bury him in the backyard if he ever tried to leave me because of my stretch marks.  He can totally leave me for being a crazy bitch, but not for what I look or don't look like.

I know I'm being totally irrational about this. I have three scars on my belly from my appendectomy. I think they are totally rad and I show them off whenever I get the chance. They are my battle scars. They are proof I won against my angry appendix threatening to take my life.

I know I should look at my stretch marks as the proof that I grew a WHOLE PERSON and lived to tell about it. I know I should be proud. I know I shouldn't care if they never fade.

BUT I HATE THEM.

I guess it hate them because it's proof that I'm human.

FUCK.