At the end of my freshman year I wanted to switch birth control methods. I decided I wanted the Skyla IUD, which is a T-shaped device placed in someone’s uterus that continuously releases synthetic hormones. I went to my gynecologist, had the IUD put in, and drove myself home, relieved that it went smoothly.
Over the next few days I started to experience side effects that my doctor had told me about: continuous bleeding, cramping, and nausea. This was unpleasant, but nothing I hadn’t dealt with before. It was just like having a super long period.
What did worry me was that I was waking up in the morning full of anxiety. My heart would race, my breathing was shallow, and I was nauseous and sweaty as soon as I opened my eyes. It’s scary to wake up to your body filled with fear, and your mind unsure of how to make sense of it. I would try to get out of bed, but I felt stuck. The only thing that felt okay was to pull my covers up to my chin and curl into a ball for a few hours, staring out the window. After eating breakfast I would slump back onto my couch, feeling trapped and foggy for the rest of the day.
This was the beginning of summer–the weather was perfect and the semester just ended–I wouldn’t nor-
mally be feeling this way. After a few weeks, this constant anxiety was joined by a heavy depression. I don’t remember much of what I did or how I felt, but at one point I called my friend and sobbed into the phone. What if it doesn’t stop, what if I feel like this forever? I probably should have gone back to my doctor at this point, but I knew that transition- ing off and on birth control can be tough, so I decided to ride it out.
Over the coming months the depression slowly faded, and my periods became more regular. The anxiety however, seemed to be here to stay. I wasn’t just more anxious; I had more frequent and intense physical experiences of anxiety. I woke up anxious in the morning and in the middle of the night. It would take me at least an hour-often much more-to fall asleep. Any stressor would manifest in nausea, hyperventilating and crying, even if it was something minor that I didn’t actually feel concerned about.
My body felt unable to regulate itself, and I could tell that it was because of my IUD. I’ve never felt so weirdly separate from and stuck inside myself. At my next appointment, I told my doctor how I had been feeling. She listened closely, and said she was sorry I was having a hard time, but that there was no way to know if my IUD was contributing
He recommended that I focus on mental health care, so that I wouldn’t have to change birth control just because of anxiety. This reinforced what I thought my priorities should be: keep the IUD, deal with rest. Negative effects from birth control are often denied or belittled, and doctors rarely offer support. The place that I have found comfort is in conversation. There is so much power in hearing how others feel and in feeling listened to. It’s taken me two years to finally realize that if I don’t like how my IUD makes me feel, there’s no reason that I need to keep it. This isn’t just a realization about birth control, but also that my understanding of myself is valid and that I don’t need a doctor (or anyone) to agree for it to be true.
As I think about moving forward, I’m confronted by my place in this country. This summer, at the same time I was beginning to feel confident in my decision to get rid of my IUD, abortion and other care became severly restricted in 25 states.
I live and go to college in states where I can still access a variety of legal reproductive services, which is aided by my position as a relatively wealthy white woman with a network of supportive family and friends. While many other people have addressed this shift by seeking out long acting contraceptives, I have the privilege to consider changing my birth control, knowing that I have access to other options. This makes me feel guilty, and overwhelmed by the knowledge that many people no longer can think about contraception with the same ease that I can.
It is also a poignant reminder that many people have never had this ease: birth control in the US is wrought with forced pregnancy, forced sterilization, and a lack of choice for all but a small population.
It also makes me feel scared. As confident as I am in my ability to access care now, who am I to say that I will continue to have these privileges? I’m not sharing any of this to scare people away from birth control (there are lots of things I love about my IUD), or to guilt people into staying on it (I got enough of that from my doctor).
I mostly wanted to share my experiences with those who don’t have to think about contraception on a daily basis, as well as for those who do and feel alone, confused or stuck.
I don’t have the solutions, for myself or the country, but if I’ve realized anything it’s that talking about it helps.