Merry Christmas, Anxiety Monster

It was really nice, how many of you responded to my half-joking, kind of sarcastic Story about parenting with an anxiety disorder.  I realized that perhaps by answering here, where everyone can read it, maybe just one less person will be left feeling neurotic and pathetic because of their imperfect mental health - 

I was diagnosed with an Acute Fear Based Panic Disorder.  I got that diagnosis while still fighting for a doctor to take my physical illness seriously.  It sounds rational, that fears would trigger panic, but in many cases they aren’t what most would consider a natural fear, or its a seemingly natural fear (spiders, drowning, big loud dogs) that a person blows way out of proportion.   Someone fearing drowning may never get in a boat, into a pool, or even that bathtub; hearing really heavy rain might make them panic.  For me, my fear is the loss of control.  

I hate flying, not because I’m scared of crashing and dying, but because I don’t get to decide when we stop, even if I really need to stop.  I get anxious going into dental work or surgery, because I have no control over the outcome.  My biggest fear, though, as far as anxiety goes, is being sick, and losing control of my own body (that’s also why I don’t drink or do recreational drugs).  

It’s ironic and DEMONIC, that my biggest panic trigger has also always been my most severe symptom of Endometriosis.  I was always nauseous or throwing up or dealing with diarrhea, and I was always so fucking anxious.  I would get sucked into the most horrifying cycle of my sickness making me anxious, and my anxiety making me sick.  I’d move into the bathroom for days at a time, in a heavy Gravol and Ativan fog. 

Why is barfing so scary?!  Everyone does it!  And it’s not even the awful physical feelings that set me off...it’s the fact that if I’m going to be sick, I’m going to be sick, and I can’t stop it.  I have no choice.  It needs to come out whether I’m ready for it to, or not!  But it goes a little further for me, which is where the neurotic and pathetic feelings kick in.  

Yesterday a girlfriend told be she’d gotten hit by the tummy bug, and I instantly got prickly and warm, regardless of the fact that I haven’t been with her in weeks!  There’s no way I could have gotten her germs!  But then my husband goes out with her husband last night, and her husband gets hit this morning...so I spent the day, tense, and avoiding all kisses and snack sharing.  Reminding myself that it’s not like our husbands were making out the night before, and also preparing myself.  

‘Just in case’ is a mega coping mechanism of mine; make sure the toilets are clean, that my little drug drawer is full, that there’s ginger ale and apple juice in the fridge.  It definitely didn’t help that I was already nauseous, because it’s the end of the month, and that’s just who I am at the end of the month.  

We went to wander around Christmas lights this evening, and honestly, fresh air is SO good for an anxious brain.  I’d avoided taking an Ativan before going, because I was already so tired, but on our way home I took one.  In Starbucks, after my child said his tummy felt weird...and later that he was too full for his apple chips, and then he got real snuggly, which is wonderful, but made me panic because he’s whiny lately, not sweet and snuggly.  

I’d taken a few sips of my latte then packed it up to take home to my fridge, because I didn’t want to waste it by finishing it and then puking.  I put my kid in the car sans jacket etc..less things to wash if he ended up puking, and I checked ‘how are you feeling?’ every few minutes during the ride home.  He fell asleep.  And went right to sleep when we got home.  He’s not sick, he’s just exhausted.  Right?!  

I sat, coloring, in the kitchen until midnight, too anxious to sleep, and waiting just in case he woke up sick.  Because wake up sicks are the worst.  And now I’ll lay in bed, with our doors open so I can hear him snoring, and hopefully I’ll fall asleep.  And hopefully none of us barf.  

We’re not going to barf.  We’re fine.  And even if we are going to get sick, we will be fine.  Christmas will be fucked, but we’ll be ok.  I will be ok.  I have survived every single sick day, so why does even the mention of a sick tummy make me spin and sweat and over prepare, just in case?  Because I have an Acute Fear Based Panic Disorder.   And now you know!

Ps.  For the record, I actually appreciate being notified when friends have been sick, especially if we have been in some kind of physical contact over the last few days, or are planning on being together.  I don’t want you thinking that warning me will drive me into a nervous breakdown!  Most days I can just take a few deep breaths, and I appreciate being able to prepare ‘just in case’.  

Truth Time

I have been going through something, and as much as an open book as I pride myself on being, I’ve kept it to myself as much as possible. I’m still trying to work out why, but it felt right at the time.

It’s been a long few weeks, but this last week was the very bottom of it. And it’s because between doctors being on holidays, and me just plain procrastinating, I went two days without my meds, a week and a half ago ago.

If you’re thinking that doesn’t sound like a big deal, I was right there with you. Two little days! Two little days is all it took to remind me how fucking powerful these pills are, how fucking necessary they are FOR ME, and how fucking thankful I am for them.
It’s taken me much longer then I’d assumed to mentally come to terms with the losses our family has felt over the last few weeks, then PMS hit hard, then suddenly it was August which meant I only had a month left as a full time stay at home mom, and I felt depressed for the first time in years. Of course death and huge life changes are things that anyone would naturally pair with some degree of depression, but being off my meds took it to a very unnatural level. There was an overwhelming fatigue for a few days, my nerves just screamed for my bed while wrangling a sweaty toddler all day. And I cried, so much. And then the withdrawal kicked in.

Yes, two days is all it took for my body and my brain to start panicking and searching desperately for the one thing that has successfully kept shit in order for more then 12 years. Restless Leg Syndrome was certainly the most obvious withdrawal symptom, and when you’re not sleeping properly, depressed or not, nothing is right in the world. Every night for a week I’d lay in bed crying while I twitched and stretched my muscles, then I paced the living room for a half hour before going back to bed to cry and twitch again. I was beyond irritable, beyond unmotivated, and just felt empty. Amidst all the crying, though, (seriously, so much crying) I was also reminded of how lucky I am; not only do I have a remarkably supportive family that let me nap when I could, and friends who checked in on me, I’ve also found enough self confidence to be medicated.

So many people struggle through every day, unnecessarily, because society has convinced them that turning to a prescription is weak and that NEEDING help with their mental health makes them less-than. It hasn’t always been easy for me, of course. I started my meds in high school after an episode of Oprah made me realize That how I’d been feeling was called Depression, and told no one. A few years later someone who was a best friend told me they didn’t Want me around their child anymore, after finding out I had panic attacks and took ‘drugs’.

The stigma is a motherfucker, and I know that it robs far too many good people of a better life. Especially moms. Moms who already question every parenting decision and compare themselves to every other mother on the planet and are made to feel like they need to live up to these epic standards that no one’s ever actually seen before... ‘You have a beautiful child, how can you be depressed?’ ‘How can you take care of your kids if you have panic attacks every time you feel sick?’

It’s scary, admitting you can’t do LIFE on your own. Everyone experiences the death of loved ones, job stress, the parenting rollercoaster, breakups and divorces, car accidents and unexpected financial woes... And it’s too easy to assume that EVERYONE else just does it, they just power through and they deal. Everyone else makes it look so easy, so I shouldn’t be struggling. But I hope that someone out their takes some kind of comfort in the fact that I am not everyone else.

I am doing it, powering through and dealing, but I am also medicated. I am a wife and a really great mother, and I am also medicated.  I am a really worthy human being, who just happens to be medicated. 

I’ve been taking my meds nightly again, for 8 days, and with the help of a new RLS prescription and an Ativan, I finally slept last night. Sleep is life changing. And so are the drugs. And things are finally looking up again. When the people we love pass away, it haunts us on and off, possibly for the rest of our lives, and I am still dealing with overwhelming feelings regarding Kindergarten, but at least I’ve got a stable starting place, again.


Ps. Please know that if you are one of those people who are able to take what life throws at you and conquer it naturally, I am so happy for you, and so proud of you. But, if you are someone who’s asked for help, I bow down to you because I know it’s not the easy way out. And if you are one of those people that are stuck in the middle, hurting but thinking it’s too late to seek treatment, it isn’t. It never is. We all deserve a fair chance at facing the day, and I’ve concluded that that’s what my medication is.

But Seriously

I told a friend that I was taking me and my morning sickness out for ‘breakfast’ this morning, and of course she excitedly asked if I was pregnant. Lol, we’re not close friends, clearly, but it reminded me of a bone I have to pick with all of you. You, being society in general.

How come we still feel it’s appropriate to comment on a woman’s postpartum body, or their postpartum life?

I’m nearly 4 years postpartum, but it still irks me.

A week ago we attended my Mother In Law’s funeral. (Insert deep breaths here) Attending a funeral always comes with polite pleasantries with people you know of but don’t know, and between all of the sweetest comments and memories being shared I was shocked by how many times my body and my life as a mom were brought up.

I was told, ‘If I had a kid that cute I’d have 5 more!’ and ‘If I didn’t have to go back to work, I’d have at least one more kid!’ and my personal favorite, ‘If my body looked like that after being pregnant, I’d have 3 more!’ I understand that all of these things slip through mouths meant as a compliment, so I’ve learned to smile or giggle and nod instead of screaming ‘I'VE BEEN SICK FOR 12 YEARS AND I DON’T HAVE A UTERUS ANYMORE SO FUCK OFF PLEASE!’  But.  Friends.  We need to raise our level of consciousness and think for just one extra second before saying such things.

And because I’m currently on my own with a latte I didn’t make myself, breathing outside air deeply, I’m going to take a sec to address these few things..

1 - How cute YOU think a child is literally has nothing to do with how big a family is going to grow to be!

Is society still this shallow, that instead of commenting on how well behaved our toddler is being while stuck in the midst of a boring visitation full of crying adults, we’re talking about how attractive he is? And we’re talking about it as if it’s really a deciding factor? I can admit that I throw that ‘they’d make beautiful babies together’ line around, but never to someone’s face, and never in the sense that they SHOULD make babies because they’d be beautiful.

Our A+ genetics have absolutely nothing to do with why Boden is an only child. And as much as I chose to only have one, I didn’t really get the choice, and being reminded of that at any time, never mind at a time I’m already over emotional, will always sting. We have no idea why one family is teeny and another is huge.

A tip - Please feel free to remind me that, ‘shit your kid is cute!’ anytime you want, but unless you’re genuinely asking about our choices as a family, it’s safest to just avoid commenting on his non-existent siblings.

2 - I feel so goddamn lucky to have spent these last nearly-4 years at home with Boden. So goddamn lucky. Even on the days that I have to lock myself in the bathroom, or the days I cry because I know I can’t yell at him, or the days I cry because I’m just so freaking exhausted and unmotivated, I go to bed feeling so lucky. And I know that it’s a privilege, that not everyone can afford to stay home once Mat Leave ends (and don’t get me started on the lack of Mat Leave that my American friends get). But it’s way too easy to assume that finances are the only reason a mother chooses to stay home instead of returning to work.

We are VERY comfy as a family, but I am well aware of how much comfier we’d be if I’d gone back to work 3 years ago. And there have been so many days that I wish I was at work instead of at home, or more so that I wish I could work instead of being at home.

As soon as it was done growing and nourishing a new human, my body turned on me, again. When I wasn’t feeding or changing or waking up 39 times a night with my baby, I was in the bathroom sick and crying. You know, I actually tried, and failed to work after Boden turned 1.  I took my most favorite kid (next to my own) all day while her parents worked, for a few months. But I was too sick. I loved her with my whole heart and I loved her and Boden together, and I don’t think any other job would have made me happier, but I just couldn’t.


Since giving birth I’ve undergone and recovered from 3 surgeries because of my Endometriosis. That alone doesn’t leave much time to be gainfully employed.
I am lucky, and I think all moms (or dads) who stay home with their kids are lucky, but again, please don’t assume that’s the whole story.

A tip - It’s very ok to say, ‘It’s so nice you get to spend these days with him.’ Or! For bonus points, ‘Being a stay-at-home mom is such a hard job, and you’re doing SO good!’ You can make a comment or a compliment without making an assumption.

3 - Don’t get me wrong, I know that so many women struggle to lose the baby weight, and my lack of a waist can be envied and seen as lucky. I get that. But unless we are best friends who discuss such personal things, I don’t get why anyone comments on it.

Postpartum recovery does likely play a part in a woman’s decision to have more kids. Some women love being pregnant, and some women’s bodies respond much faster and easier then others after giving birth. Honestly, if I hadn’t been SO sick while pregnant, and I hadn’t had such a traumatic labor and delivery, I would have considered trying for another one before my Hysterectomy a little heavier. Women are allowed to consider 1000 different things when choosing whether or not to have kids, but no one else is allowed to comment on those things. Especially the way she looks. How do we not KNOW this by now?

Some of it is luck, in my case. Luck/ genetics. My mom had 3 of us, and she’s got a smokin bod, and I definitely think that plays a part. But what was the main reason I was so skinny so soon after gaining 40+ lbs while pregnant? It was the puking and the shitting and the nausea that left me with a minimal appetite. It was a disease. And none of that has ever felt lucky. Ever. I promise that I’d rather be 10lbs heavier right now, then as nauseous as I am this morning, and I’ve always struggled with the fact that that’s so hard for so many people to understand.

A tip - Whether it’s luck or genetics or illness or the fact that a mom has worked her fucking ass off at the gym every morning, it’s just wrong to equate her body with how many kids she should have.

You can tell a mom, ‘You look amazing,’ even if she knows she actually looks tired and hasn’t changed her shirt in 3 days! You can (and should!) compliment a mother without bringing her weight into the conversation! You can make her feel good about herself without making the woman next to her feel like she shouldn’t have more kids just because she hasn’t lost all the baby weight!

Or just talk about the weather, instead!

My Vagina

The title seems pretty self explanatory but for those of you who think I'm just being cheeky, tonight's blog post comes with fair warning:  If you are my parents or my siblings or my child in the future, or a run of the mill prude who still thinks vaginas and women's health is too taboo, do not read any further!  

Tonight I am airing some laundry that I have kept pretty well to myself.  It's not ugly laundry, it's not abnormal laundry (sadly, it's more common then I'd thought), it's not dirty at all.  And yet, it's something that has managed to make me feel like a failure as a woman and as a wife, something that has tested the relationship I am beyond lucky to be in.  It's occupied more then 3 years of my life, and that's how long it's taken for me to gather the courage (and my husband's blessing) to talk openly about it.  

I know that all sounds pretty intriguing and dramatic, but again, this is a blog about my vagina.  And it's not a sexy blog.  

Most mothers will complain (half jokingly, or dead seriously) that their children ruined their vaginas. If you're able to experience a vaginal delivery, it comes with a slew of after effects that can last a lifetime if not treated properly; muscle weakness, trouble peeing (or not peeing..), etc.  Our child, despite the size of his head, was not what ruined my vagina, however.  My doctor did.

I always feel it necessary to point out that while my vagina has been a painful, infuriating situation since my delivery, my doctor is the one who diagnosed my Endometriosis.  It feels like right thing to do, defend him at least a little.  This man saved my life, quite literally, but he also ruined my vagina. He, and his archaic male brain destroyed my vagina. 

Our son really should have been born via C-section.  My hips dislocated more then once during a way too long labor and I was on so many painkillers that I couldn't tell when to push, but I was terrified of being cut open.  (A C-section is a lot different then a couple laparoscopies.)  Because of my naturally tiny vagina, and my tilted birth canal I was pushing him down instead of out, and the quickest way to hurry the process a long was an episiotomy.  (Please keep any and all anti-medical intervention comments to yourself, thanks.)

My episiotomy wasn't even that bad!  I have friends who were snipped or tore right from the front to the back!  (If you're a man and you're reading this, did you know that?!  Did you know that while books and romantic comedies preach that a woman's body is made to have babies, babies can actually rip a gigantic hole through us?!  Can you please take a moment to appreciate that!)  My episiotomy terrified me once it was mentioned, but it was very straight forward, it was also very straight (sometimes they're on an angle).  I went into shock almost immediately after our son was out and the nurses had rushed him away, so I was nearly unconscious when my doctor gently mentioned he was going to stitch me up and get out of our way.  I remember SO little of my labor and delivery experience, but I remember him joking, 'don't worry, daddy' to my husband while starting the stitches.  I thought he was joking, anyways. 

The Husband Stitch is really, an absolutely unnecessary 'practice'.  Vaginas are fucking resilient, and while we'd all assume that a human being coming out MUST stretch a vagina, it really doesn't.  Not after only one human being, anyways.  But society would assume that it would.  Society also assumes that the tighter a vagina is, the better.  And therein lies my problem.

The Husband Stitch is essentially an extra stitch thrown in after repairing a tear or an incision, to insure that things down there are good and snug for the husband after those cautionary 6 weeks have passed and sex can safely resume.  Because of course, after a woman has carried a fucking watermelon inside her uterus for 40 weeks and then pushed said watermelon out of her tiny vagina after hours of inconceivable contractions, doctors should worry about how the husband feels.  

Let me tell you, my husband would have been MUCH more satisfied had my doctor given him a secret tip on getting your newborn to sleep for more then 2hrs in a row, instead of an extra stitch. This stitch has done him no good.

I was genuinely looking forward to that dreaded 'mom vagina'.  The one I was born with was too small in my opinion, and I was excited for some extra room.  My husband is not freakishly endowed, but we JUST fit.  Before having a baby, sex almost always began the way the first time began; not totally comfy.  It always took a minute before I could really enjoy myself.  Luckily, I really enjoyed myself after that first minute or two. 

Like most new moms, the idea of having sex again after birthing a baby and especially after stitches is fairly terrifying.  Your insides are jello and all out of place for weeks after a baby comes out, and stitches in your vagina literally suck the breath out of you every time you stand up or sit down.  You KNOW it's not going to be enjoyable!  The tips my mom friends and I passed around included, 'get very drunk first', and 'put a pillow over your head so your husband can't see the awful faces you make or hear you crying'.  No mom that I knew enjoyed it for a while, so for a long time I told myself that what I was feeling was normal.  I told myself that it would get better the more we did it, though that was hard because who really wanted to do it when it felt the way it was feeling?!

To be blunt, I tore every time we had sex after I had a baby.  Every time.  Nothing substantial, it's not something my husband could visibly notice without really looking.   Imagine the worst paper cut you've ever had, then imagine it in your vagina.  Right where the incision had started.  It didn't hurt the entire time, just for a minute or two (which was normal for us, though this hurt was much worse then before) when we started and then again once we were finished.  More often then not our sexy time ended with me lying on the bed with a hot cloth between my legs.  Tucks Pads and essential oil ointment were always accessible.  

Like plenty of constantly-sucky things, I got used to it.  (If you can get 'used to' chronic Endometriosis symptoms, you can get used to anything.)  Ouchy sex became the norm, though, naturally I initiated the act much less.  'Oh!  I'm super in the mood!  Oh, but it is going to hurt..sooo maybe tomorrow..'  Of course, plenty of couples notice their sex life slowing down at least a little once a baby is introduced into the mix.  And then Lupron happened.  

Lupron is referred to as the Chemo of hormone therapy.  Despite the Laparoscopy I had when our son turned 1, my Endometriosis still had me in a revolting and desperate state, and a Hysterectomy was finally agreed upon.  Lupron was part of my 4 month pre-op treatment, hoping to shrink the Endometrial growths, and prepare my other parts to be executed.  Lupron is basically chemically-induced Menopause, and most women experience exaggerated Menopause side effects like hot flashes, mood swings, bone loss, nausea, chills and fatigue.  I was made aware of those side effects, so I wasn't shocked when they hit.  The symptoms that did take me by surprise were the random blood pressure plummets (I kept passing out), and the skin thinning.  Lupron is full of lady hormones, so of course it would effect lady parts; I expected dryness, but it also caused the skin in and around my vagina to thin out.  The skin that was already tearing.  

Sex became unbearable.  The tearing was worse and the pain was so much worse, and now it didn't go away after the first few minutes.  I feel absolutely awful saying that sex with my husband (my super sexy, amazing husband who I love a ridiculous amount) became traumatizing.  That part, was very depressing.  That feeling was so unfair.  After 2 (of 4) months of Lupron sex ended in tears (vagina tears but also crying-tears), which is more mortifying then I'd imagine, despite being with someone I'm completely open and comfortable with.  The last time we had sex I couldn't stand it, and we couldn't finish.  And I sobbed.  Snot-sobbed.  I felt beyond guilty because naturally my husband felt bad, even though none of it had anything to do with him.  

Yes, you read that right; the last time we had sex was before my Hysterectomy.  Yes, the hysterectomy I had over a year ago.  Yes!  We haven't had sex in over a year!  

Holy shit, it feels good to let that out.  Nauseating, but good.  Do you know how much shame society subconsciously makes you feel when you're not giving your husband sex?  And that's what it's seen as, a husband not getting sex.  Society thinks men need super tight vaginas, and that a man not getting sex from his wife should be pitied.  Do you know how many times I've read comments in 'support group' forums claiming that a husband not getting regular sex has the right to cheat on his wife? Because men have a natural NEED for sex, and they DESERVE it.   And honestly, that's why I haven't written about this before, for fear of crying and then slugging the first person who (even jokingly) cooed, 'aw, your poor husband!'

Obviously this situation has sucked for him.  Mega sucked.  Despite how many times he's seen me on and around a toilet, despite how different my body looks after having a baby, by husband is still remarkably attracted to me and not being able to just do your wife, is frustrating.  It is frustrating in a way that I can't understand.  You know who else it sucks for, though?  Me!  I also haven't gotten any sex in over a year!  And on top of that, I can't sit for an extended period of time without starting to ache or sting!

When I found out my Hysterectomy would be 'Laparoscopic-assisted Vaginal' (they make tiny incisions in the abdomen for the camera and tools, but in the end the organs are removed through a hole made up inside your vagina, to avoid slicing your whole abdomen in half) I got my hopes WAY up.  Many Hysterectomies preformed that way require an episiotomy (especially when you've got a giant disease-ridden uterus), and we agreed that it was the perfect opportunity to repair my initial episiotomy.  Ta da!  I was nearly more excited for the new lease on a sex life then I was for the chance of living an Endo-symptom-free life.  

I already said that we haven't had sex since before my Hysterectomy, so, obviously it didn't work.  

Making a small vagina bigger is much harder then making a bigger vagina smaller.  Surgeons are very rarely asked to do that, meanwhile vaginal Botox and vaginal lifts are still all the rage.  I said (more then once) that my vagina was just too small, but my surgeon (the same one) and his team focused on the tearing aspect of my complaints.  To insure the skin would no longer tear, they used surrounding tissue to reinforce the area after my Hysterectomy.  I cried a lot (hysterical IV-pain killers crying) after my first follow up with him in the hospital, the day after the surgery; they'd left an ovary in, and they'd 'repaired' my vagina instead of resizing it.  

Ps.  I thought vagina stitches after having a baby was bad, but vagina stitches after mega organ removal is actually worse.  

I was overly cautious after surgery.  We waited a lot longer then the suggested 8 weeks, because I was terrified.  I was terrified that it would hurt, and terrified of the possible disappointment.  Because what the fuck would we do if my vagina was still broken?  Get a divorce?  Find my husband a side piece?

My vagina is too small, and now it is also a brick wall.  Basically.  Between the reinforcing tissue and the scar tissue there is absolutely no give to the skin down there.  All (most?) vaginas look smaller then a penis, but they naturally stretch to accommodate.  Mine doesn't.  

Initially I thought it was just me, again.  I kept thinking I was just too anxious, or not horny enough thanks to the post-uterus hormone imbalance.  And I bet plenty of people would assume that, after reading this, that I just haven't tried hard enough, or I just haven't wanted it bad enough.  But I want it, and we have tried.  We tried hard, and a lot.  This time, it is something that is substantial and obvious to my husband.  He can not get it in.  We tried hard, and a lot, and then we stopped trying. 

And this is when everyone starts to wonder, how the F do you survive a sexless marriage?  And I tell you that it has not been easy.  

Holy shit, there is an absurd amount of importance placed on sex inside a relationship!  I would never say that it isn't important, because it is.  But it is not the most important aspect.  I know that now.

We really love each other, and we both WANT to have sex, that definitely makes things easier.  It's not a sexless marriage because one or both of us have lost the desire or grown less attracted to each other.  It's not his fault, it's not my fault, and that definitely helps.  

In the beginning, things were very tense.  We both tried ignoring the lack of intimacy, and we both became quite passive aggressive, and bitter.  We avoided talking about it because we were both, it turns out, scared of what might be said.  He was scared I would say that I didn't want to try anymore and that I was fine never having sex again, I was scared he'd say we couldn't be together anymore if we didn't have sex.  The conversation wasn't super happy, we both got angry and we both got sad, it took a few days to get through, but it was a game changer.  

When I say that we've had a sexless marriage for the last year and a half, I simply mean that we haven't had stereotypical intercourse.  After that conversation though, we make a conscious effort to keep our relationship plenty sexy, regardless.  Turns out, penis-in-vagina is not detrimental to a healthy sex life.  (Duh, all of my LGBTQ friends moan.)  It definitely helps that while I refer to it as 'broken' my actual vagina works just fine; my vaginal opening is a joke, but everything else is just fine.  Luckily!  Some women suffer from 'sexual dysfunctions' even though their vaginal openings are plenty roomy!  

This is where I'll start to keep personal details personal, but it works.  We make it work.  

Sometimes it feels a little like work, I won't deny that.  I won't deny that I've screamed at my TV while watching some cheesy movie where the couple gets all cute and then just bangs, because that's how it should be.  I should be able to just bang my husband whenever I want to!  Banging, is in fact easier, and that's what keeps me a little bitter these days.  When you've got a kid and jobs and a social life and the need to actually just sleep at bedtime, it's painfully obvious that's it'd be way easier to just bang and be done.  Sexy-time requires more effort and time, then just sex.  But!  Beggars can't be choosers.  

Though!  Turns out, I have the chance to choose again.  After the months of pain and frustration, after taking the necessary time to brace myself all over again for the anxiety and the recovery, my surgeon and I will meet in an OR once more, tomorrow!  

Yes, the same surgeon, because I'll be having a giant cyst removed first (being a girl is SO fun sometimes!!), and then a plastic surgeon will join him in an effort to actually fix my vagina, and return some sort of normalcy and care-freeness to my sex life.  (No pressure, guys!)

It seems like an obvious decision, another surgery, but it was actually really stressful to land on.  I've used plenty of fancy descriptive words in other blogs, but I'm not sure any of them do justice to the pain and anxiety that comes from dealing with layers (yes, multiples, internal and external) stitches in your vagina.  Unless you've had your own, it's hard to understand, obviously.  But isn't SEX worth that week or two of awful pain, and the following month or so of frustrating discomfort?  That question makes me want to scream, 'Why don't you ask a man that?!  Why don't you go ask a man if he'd hesitate to have his penis sliced open and then sewn back together?!'

Of course normal sex would be worth it!  My track record leaves me quite a skeptic, though.  What if it doesn't work, again?  What if this only makes things worse?  This is for sure the last time we will be cutting and stitching down there, I mean, that surgical area is pretty minimal, there's only so much room and so much tissue to work with.   Could it be worse then it is now?  Insert panic, here.  Fuck. 

But I (WE!) can only be hopeful, run with that 'third time's a charm' mantra!  Cross all the fingers and all the toes and knock on wood and find some eyelashes to wish on, and pray that I've been a good enough human being this year that the universe will look down upon me and say, 'Yes.  Yes, she deserves an awesome, easy to use vagina.  Duh.' 

Hysterversary

A year ago I'd be getting wheeled into the recovery wing after having spent a few hours having my uterus, cervix, tubes and an ovary removed along with a pile of Endometriosis!  A year ago I won a fight I'd picked for myself!  Even before having our son I made it clear that I wanted a Hysterectomy, and while I obviously appreciate the initial hesitation from my surgeon, after giving birth I spent 2 years (plus another bandaid surgery) convincing doctors that it was MY body and THIS was what I both wanted and needed.  

I have spent the last year recovering, regaining my life, being a far better mother and wife and daughter, and rediscovering my social life and what it's like just to be a productive human being.  It's pretty remarkable, the things you can accomplish (most of which are baby steps) when you're not on the verge of puking or passing out on a regular basis!  I have loved my world since finding my husband and starting my own family, but this past year I've fallen in love with my life again.  It's no longer a spectacularly exhausting chore being me.  

Things aren't perfect still, but I feel like a dick whenever I feel the need to whine because my every-day is so much better then it ever has been!  After the initial 12 weeks of allowing my insane hormones to settle and my remaining abdominal organs to settle into their new (roomier) homes, I had to get used to feeling NORMAL again!  For 3 of the 4 weeks every month, I wake up and I don't have to run for the toilet immediately.  I don't have to take Gravol on top of pain killers every 3-4 hours.  I can make and keep plans, leave the house without an Ativan, chase my kid around the house without wanting to cry and needing a nap more then once a day.  It's so amazing.  Feeling sick is no longer my norm, and I have a feeling that's why it now really knocks my socks off when I do get sick. 

Once a month my one ovary ovulates, and it hits me like a truck.  The constant nausea, the insane fatigue, constant bathroom breaks and the awesome breakouts come back with a vengeance.  I also now experience mind-numbing ovulation pain (because it's likely pissed there's no one to share the load with anymore) and mood swings.  As bad as the physical 'that time of the month' symptoms are, the emotional rollercoaster upsets me the most.  For 7-10 days I jump from depressed to ANGRY to way-too-happy at the drop of a hat; I need at least one real cry and I notice (with my helpless toddler) that my level of patience drops to zero.  It's also the only time I deal with any obvious anxiety, which is annoying, but also impressive.  (I haven't had to refill my Ativan prescription in over 8 months?!)

I saw my OB-GYN/surgeon this week for a mega 'followup' and my main issue was the monthly symptoms.  I get that every woman feels like a pile of shit when it's period week, but I felt like shit for 10 solid years.  The average female will experience period symptoms for approximately 492 weeks between their first period and Menopause (Christ), but I've dealt with over 520 and I'm only 32.  That's enough for me, thanks.  So I said I wanted my last ovary out, which again is met with great hesitation from medical professionals.  

Zero functional ovaries means Menopause which means Hormone Replacement Therapy.  To me, HRT at least seems regulated but of course comes with the possibility of 100 new side effects, especially considering it could be another 30 years before I'd reach natural Menopause.  So this year I will be working a new prescription (Cyclomen) into my daily routine in order to prevent ovulation, which should eliminate the monthly symptoms while still allowing natural Estrogen to be produced. Of course some of the possible side effects of this drug are the side effects I'm trying to get away from...but what's one more year of frigging experimenting my body!? (🤷🏻‍♀️)

I will still be going in for another surgery before the new year starts, though.  During my LAVH my original episiotomy was repaired, and by repaired I mean my main concern was actually made worse, but for now I shal spare social media those details (and spare my husband the possible semi-embarrassment).  I have to have an impressive cyst removed from under the scar tissue down there, and then a specialized surgeon will also come in to ACTUALLY (please, God) fix my girl stuff.  

It's entirely possible that this time next year I will feel even better then I do right now, and that makes me a little emotional.  Good-emotional.  Not fighting every single day makes me good-emotional. My toddler using his July Birthday wish for 'a better tummy for mommy' makes me so good-emotional that I could just die.  He is the best, and being able to be my best for him (most days) is the whole reason I chose to march down this particular path.  I had to fight way too damn hard for my right to make major decisions for my own body, and the following recovery was much harder then I'd imagined, but it has already been so, so worth it.