Why I’m cool with GRRM taking his time; today at least.

23 04 2016

I can’t kill myself until I read the last A Song of Ice and Fire books. That will probably give me another….20 years at least.

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.