Why I Hate the Mikvah

I dread the mikvah. I rarely experience anxiety, but the mikvah gives me anxiety. I once took my birth control pill for eight months straight to avoid getting my period, which is not safe.

I barely ever go on the correct night—somehow, I manage to become ill, fight with my husband, have something important that night, and delay it. In the summer, I will only go in the ocean; I don’t care what anyone says. How many times have I come home from the mikvah so stressed and just avoided my husband? All week, I’m passive-aggressive, dreading the inevitable. I cringe thinking about it. I take off my nail polish with tears in my eyes. I consider faking it and just coming home with wet hair. I just want to kick the mikvah lady in the face. I hate everything about it.

I think it started after I couldn’t get pregnant—a monthly reminder that I wasn’t pregnant yet. Then I had a miscarriage—haha, you have to go back to the mikvah. Then someone said to me, “I’m nine months pregnant; come dip after me, it’s good luck.” Everyone I know pushed me to go—it didn’t work.

Then my sister got pregnant by mistake—but I was still going to the mikvah. It’s such a painful reminder to me of everything. I’m not even sure exactly what I despise about it.

Then I had major surgery, and my body looked very different—I don’t want the stupid mikvah lady to see me naked, but she insists, and I cringe—dying inside.

Then I had a baby that died after a few days. “When are you going to the mikvah?” my husband asks. “When I’m ready,” I say. I didn’t go for months.

But when I finally went back, I was reminded of my infertility struggle all over again—how badly I want to be pregnant and not have to come to this chlorine-smelling place and get naked in front of a stranger. I hate the mikvah and resent my husband for making me go. It tortures my soul, triggers my pain, and I could say it’s a form of PTSD. It’s more painful each time, and I think I’m done with it.