The Adventures of Self Love and Eradicating the Werepussy

18 07 2015

I ride my bike a lot, and I sweat a lot, and I have a vagina. This is apparently not the best thing for my femme cave. So after several scary visits to Planned Parenthood, so far I just have normal vagina problems, that have nothing to do with STI’s. Which I’m glad off, of course, but also annoyed. Like this is just another reason why comprehensive sex education is so important. Vaginas are great. I mean they are a pain in the ass, but they’re also amazing. Temperamental, but incredible. I thought for sure that I consumed enough garlic to never have any trouble what so ever. A few years ago, when I was riding and sweating, and accidentally made this weird frosting stuff that I turned into cookies and brownies, and then proceeded to get a whole lot of itchy down where scratching feels really good, but the itchy makes you worry… my vagina that’s what I’m talking about.

Any way because I was on the pill M and I weren’t using condoms. Because whatever that’s our decision. So I got this bacterial infection. Because when you don’t use condoms, then not only do you have to worry about what you’re eating, but also what the person with a penis is eating. I’m talk PH levels mostly here. He ate more of the brownies and cookies than I did.  So sugary cum, plus sweat and thongs(which I only found out was an issue), is how I’m guessing I got a pretty alarming case of bacterial vaginosis.

I may have not realized or paid enough attention to how many days I did the vaginal cream stuff (which you insert like a tampon) the itching and discharge went away so I figured I was good. I think I was wrong. Because I’m pretty sure that since then every time before I get my period…I get a little itchy. And what’s crazy is that I just lived with it. I hate going to the gyno types so much that I lived with my crazy werepussy. Let’s call it that werepussy, hell if the Sookie Stackhouse books can make a werepanther, tigers, foxes, and what ever else, then my itchy poone that visited monthly for a few days can be called a werepussy. Because I become a different person. The kind of person that has to stay home so they can scratch themselves till their face goes slack. The kind of person that has to find privacy in public places so their face can go slack. Think Michael Fassbender in Shame only I’m rubbing because I physically itch, not sexually.

Maybe there was this gross part of me that secretly wanted it, because I could just ruin myself with a warm washcloth. I would, too. I would literally scratch until there was a hint of blood. So yea… not the best treatment of myself. Then I would put tea tree oil or apple cider vinegar on my wash cloth, pat it, and feel that stinging burn. I liked the way it felt. I liked that it hurt. I did it just last month and it was fantastic. But I don’t think that’s possibly the best thing to do, so I’ve decided to be nicer to my meat purse, and kill the werepuss.

How does one kill a werepussy? Well, start by properly taking the full regiment of medicine given to you. Follow their instructions and take it easy physically for a few days. Then rework wardrobe. Buy proper cycling gear to protect your lovely labia and friends, and then moisture wicking underwear. Thongs? now the only thong’s you shall ever wear are those that are made for athletic movements and have antibacterial fabric as well as the moisture wicking wonders. So yea, I will still be dressing like a super hero in cycling shorts and tights, but it’s just not going to be the cheap stuff anymore. I need to come up with something to do with all my non cotton underwear. Maybe I can sew in a kind of moisture wicking cotton fabric crotch patch in all of them? I wonder if that would work.

The next step after wardrobe is to further refine my diet. I will try and drink more water. If I drank one and a half of my 40 oz canteen a day (flavored with lemon or lime or apple cider vinegar) then that would probably be enough. But I think for the next week I’ll try to drink a full 80oz a day, to flush my system. Next, sugar. No more refined sugar or evaporated cane sugar. Nope, I think I’ll switch over to brown rice syrup, coconut sugar, molasses, and maple syrup. I love to bake, and cane sugar is fantastic for that, but so is coconut sugar. And since that shit is so expensive, that will probably mean less baking. Or I could just make more chocolate stuff, since I can just flavor that with vanilla.

In any case, I shall now be eating and dressing to make my vagina happy. They come first.

Doctors and PTSD

13 07 2015

I didn’t used to mind going to the doctor. As a kid I was sick quite a lot, and learned that doctors were going to be a big part of my life from a pretty early age. Being sick seemed like it was going to be a big part of my life, so I thought that I should just get used to it.  My mother was always hovering about when I was there, with that vexed look upon her face. Worried that her premature child would prematurely die. I was never safe in her eyes. But all in all I didn’t mind it. I did trust my doctors for the most part, until I was 12 and my left eardrum ruptured, (for reasons that are still disputed), but probably happened when I was concussed at a pool party. Or due to having an inner and outer ear infection around the same times. The good Doctor looked at me as the culprit though, me and my use of q-tips, even though I knew I had only gone in the outer canal, not nearly deep enough. Trusting myself, despite the shame he tried to put upon me for “doing it to myself” I started to harbor resentment for that doctor and I don’t think I ever saw him again. We then had to go to a specialist an ENT (Ear Nose and Throat) doctor who was an ancient man with glass that would make Mr. Magoo’s look slim. We would wait in an empty waiting room for hours, only to see this man for five minutes.

Those five minutes were the most painful thing I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve broken my arm before. He would put a vacuum down my ear, to clean it he said, each time. And I would see debris leaving my body out of the clear tube. It was the noise the vacuum made that was horrible. I had to dig my hands into the chair and grit my teeth, when I wanted to scream. Thinking about it still makes me cringe.  It was terrifying, horrible, and after it was over he would look through a magnifying lens and baffle at why my eardrum was not healed. After around a year of doing this charade over and over, and me at the age of 12 seeing the bill and it was well over a hundred dollars, (we were not rich by any means.) I demanded that we get a second opinion. That and a trip to Schlitterbahn, where I had to wear a swim cap, and my father had the brilliant idea of putting silly putty in my outer canal (which melted down into my ear in the hot Texas sun) and I ended up screaming about how I had a migraine and NEEDED to leave immediately and yelled at my father for making me put silly putty in my ear, even when I said it was a bad idea….right so we left, and soon after I saw that bill, and so we went to a different doctor. This doctor informed me that it was roughly 2/3 or 3/4 of my eardrum was missing. Livid, but justified I told him immediately that I refused to go back to that one ENT that he was horrible and should retire, and that he had to have known or was too blind to do his job properly. There was only one other ENT that came once a week to our town from another, slightly larger town, and we saw him the following Monday. He promptly looked in my ear and said that I needed surgery. That doctor and then the one I had later in college restored my trust a bit in doctors.

Then I was raped.

And then I moved to Boston. Socialized medicine is great. Except I haven’t been able to find a good general practitioner, yet. I think I might be one rude receptionist away from finding one that will do, for now. Going to the doctor for me, in part means telling them about abuse in my past. That is part of my medical history, because of PTSD. I also have to tell them about my concussions and ear surgery to be sure, but that doesn’t bother me. What bother’s me is being weighed. And having to tell them about that time I was forced into a mental institution for 10 days against my will, where I was put on all kinds of medication and learned that I was allergic to haldol.

But the worst is Planned Parenthood. The people there are very friendly, they are the best. I love the planned parenthood staff. But every time I’m there I end up crying. I cry because their little chart of sexual consent and power dynamics… I wish I had seen something like that in high school, and I cry thinking about how different my life could have turned out had I known that feeling guilty after being intimate with some one was never ideal, then maybe I could have had the courage to break up with the boy who became my abusive husband. I cry because I’m terrified that I’ve some how managed to have a weird delayed detection STI that the stranger rapist gave me, or that I contracted in my black out drunk days. I cry sometimes simply because they ask me if I feel safe in my relationships, and again, I wish some one had done that long ago…And sometimes I cry because I can’t help but feel uncomfortable when a speculum is in my vagina and swabs and thing are going crazy, and I can’t help but think about how the stranger hurt more. I wish I could feel safe there. I want to, but something about stirrups and paper blankets that will never make me feel easy.

Confession: I’m gross

8 07 2015

The persistent itch on my left foot is something that causes great debate within myself. To cure or not to cure? I would probably greatly appreciate a nice calming cortisol lotion on the patchy skin, but that would mean that I could no longer scratch till the foot is red and raw. That would mean the sting would leave and my fingernails would be clean. I would have to put away the razor blades that I use to pop the under the skin things I swear are causing the itching. That would mean that that clear liquid that I swear actually spreads the itch would never be release. That would mean no more scabs on the pads of my foot. That would mean soft pink skin that knows nothing but smoothness.

Dreams infect my sleep with far more grotesque than what my current foot condition is. The blisters all popped, blood and puss ooze, and then that scene from Lullaby begins to blend and I’ve begin to pull gangrened model house parts from the meat of my foot as if it were Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.

This dream moves me to get that good sweet lotion that promises to soothe cracked feet. And it does, for a little while, but then that itch, itch, itch, comes creeping back and starts the whole cycle all over again.

My fondness for razorblades is a fairly recent development in my beauty regiment. I find myself using a straight edge blade to do all sorts of things I probably shouldn’t, like pop pimples that don’t really need such force. But alas, this is probably my biggest gross weakness. Cleansing my pores. This year I met some one who had no visible pores on her nose and we were having this very intense conversation and suddenly I had to fight the urge to scream at her, “HOW DO YOU NOT HAVE ANY VISIBLE PORES???” I was both deeply fascinated, jealous, and felt sorry for her, for as I said one of my favorite hobbies is shrinking my pores and removing my blackheads by force. It has been since I was a budding teenager. Back then I was somewhat insecure of my large “man hands” I was told in fourth grade, by a friend, who didn’t realize that made me feel awfully uncomfortable. I wonder what happened to her she was so nice, we were running buddies and had a healthy competition for who could run the most laps.  Anyway, because of this insecurity I grew my fingernails out long. My nails were very strong and came in handy. I frequently had to use them as a weapon in Junior High, but too often I used them as a weapon on my face. I would take all my rage I was feeling out on my face. And end up coming to school with large scabs on my nose. Biore strips I probably did too many times, and they probably contributed more to the problem than the solution. My mother would yell at me to leave my face alone, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t be bothered it was such a rush to see how they would break or burst. Some of them would just suddenly jut out and it would be so surprising, because it was as if a small pellet had been lodged deep inside my skin. Others would erupt and sort of bloom with puss, and still others squirt some clear liquid, others would appear to just sprout hairs.

Now I know how to better clear my pores. Baking soda is my friend, I use it for nearly everything. Cleaning counters, my teeth when they need an extra kick, face, and body, even hair when I can’t remember the last time I showered. And as far as blackheads go, super short clipped fingernails are far superior than any half inch crazy nail. Short finger nails aren’t as quick to break the skin and draw blood, so less scabs. I still make myself look like Rudolph or that boulder hat wearing guy from Pop-Eye, but the swelling and redness go down far quicker than scabs take to heal. I also got one of those dermatologist tools that help you pop zits, but it’s not super good for black heads, it’s far better for the other more difficult zit.

I think it was way back when I was in the hospital and got put on all those different anti-psychotics and stuff that my skin started getting cystic acne. I didn’t really have a problem with that until after that lovely stay. I know it’s been years, but I swear it fucked my shit up that good. I know that my acne is still nothing compared to some, but it’s the worst it’s been in my life. Well it has been until recentlyI think I’ve finally found some things that really help, aside from Baking Soda, I mean. I use The Aztec Secret: Indian Healing Clay with Raw Apple Cider Vinegar, Tea Tree oil, Acure oil control facial moisturizer, Clean and Clear Salicylic Acid acne spot remover, and sometimes almond oil, or bio oil. I really want to try Philosophy’s lactic acid product line, but I mean… it was a struggle to purchase the Acure stuff and that was only $16. Well, maybe after grad school and you know I have like a job or some shit. But at least Baking Soda and Apple Cider Vinegar are cheap.

Speaking of Vinegar, ACV is my favorite shampoo/conditioner now. It makes my hair soft without being greasy and it seems to help with dandruff. But I have to be honest, showering is a struggle for me. I don’t know why. This is again, something I think I picked up from being in the hospital. But I think I might save that for another day.

Trying to write more

7 07 2015

It seems this road does wonder, meander even. What road, why the one of writing. I find myself straying and trying to stay the path, but really what keeps me from it is ultimately fear. And laziness. I’m afraid of what I might say, of the words or thoughts I might have. However I also find that when I go for long periods of time with out writing that my life does not seem to be real. This sort of dreamlike disassociation takes hold and everything is seen through the haze of a migraine, making me question my reality.

So I’ve decided to stop being lazy and stop being afraid of myself. So I’m going to try and set some goals for myself. Because goals are good right?

1. Write everyday: at least one line.

2. Post something at least once a week.

3. Let myself write about good things

4. Be an adult and get myself to the doctor to get back on meds

5. See if I can go back to C now that Obamacare and medicaid are better subsidized

6. If not C then find another place that specializes in ptsd

7. stop watching so much shit on the internet, youtube, tv, netflix, movies, hbo, learn limits and stick to them

8. be more committed to yoga

9. Go to the studio/draw/paint/everyday. Go to the studio when the shop is open so I can actually learn more joinery like I want.

10. Apply and enter into shows/contests.

Okay so there you go, words, thoughts, feelings. Okay. got some goals. Now to stick to them.