I hate being a woman.
I hate having to pee sitting down or squatting.
I hate having to wait in a long line to use the washroom when the ‘other’ one is empty.
I hate having to wear a boob sling.
I hate having to deal with ‘those men’ when I’m dolled up.
I hate being asked if I’m tired when I’m not dolled up.
I hated being pregnant (or my body hated me, though admittedly it was worth it).
I hate dealing with stereotypes on a daily basis.
I hate paying more for smaller clothes.
I hate just about everything about being a woman right now apart from it is socially acceptable for me to wear 6 inch heals out and about (even though I clearly can’t anymore) and I am allowed to love make up, bright hair and a unique fashion sense without being frowned upon by this very conservative town I live in.
I especially hate when on top of everything that’s already going on down in my abdomen that my uterus decides it’s time to decimate things completely now that I can’t take any of my normal go to shark week medications. Oh hell…..
It’s not just the appearance of my monthly visitor, cotton-twat or padded-pooter that make it an inconvenient few days, though I will admit that those alone are discomforts that are enough to just feel generally agitated. I get the whole host of PMS symptoms. Sometimes mild/moderate for days or weeks before the flow starts and sometimes severely immediately beforehand and during. This cycle it is the latter.
By symptoms I do of course mean the regular ones. Bloating, indigestion, insatiable appetite (which actually made Mr. Mango really happy considering I have had no real interest in actually eating more than gummy bears for weeks), weepiness, weight gain, irritability, sore boobs, acne, and cramps BUT those epic hormonal changes also play a huge part in making a lot of my other chronic symptoms much worse temporarily.
It could explain why when I went in to see the new GastroGuy I ended up rolling off the exam table when he started poking around my right side. My innards are so inflamed that even the lightest touch is like a kidney shot from….one of those UFC fighters….I don’t know their names. Even my own rib cage has to be careful and sitting has to be strategic.
My joints are aching worse than the flare already had them, the tension in my head is unbelievably intense, my sinus’ are full, my glands are all more swollen than the usual lupus nonsense, my insomnia is in full swing and my panic attacks are running rampant on my poor brain.
I feel like if I’m not on the brink of death already, I will be soon and I’ll be wanting it. I think I may actually prefer labor to…this. I even called my old gyno’s office to see if she miraculously returned from her new digs in New Zealand. No such luck and I’m being a stubborn B about getting a new one. I know I eventually have to, my hormone fluctuation play a huge part in a lot of my symptoms severity and none of the other specialists or my GP want to touch that with a 10 foot pole.
I’ll get there eventually, I think at least. For now it’s just stewing in misery, waiting for it to pass and FYI to Mr. Mango, I still really only want my gummy bears.