naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
Highly articulate customer reviews the DivaCup. No holds barred.

Any and all of you who appreciated my Bloody Hell rant of lo these many years past must go and read this review immediately.

Apparently this fantastic woman tried the DivaCup, and left it a review on Amazon, and . . . well . . . I know this review wasn't written by me or by my sister, who is equally profane and brilliant, but it could have been.

Lady, whoever you are, I salute you. Bloody well done.

For posterity, in case the text disappears from Amazon, which would be a terrible loss to humanity:

Full review here. )
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Vomito de Gato)
It will not surprise anyone who has ever owned or known a longhaired cat to learn that Tazendra gets dingleberries stuck in her butt fur. Tonight she brought home the motherlode. I will be damned if a single nugget of it reached the litter. So, in the middle of trying to watch a movie and prepare the next [livejournal.com profile] fever_dreams update, I suddenly have a lapful of poopy cat.

I take her to the bathroom to see how bad it is, and realize it's just awful. Either I bathe her, or I trim it all off. Since I'd have to trim it before giving her a bath -- which she hasn't had in 15 years because I frankly think that bathing cats is ludicrous under most circumstances -- I decided to just cut it. It would be easier, I thought.

Ten minutes, half a roll of toilet paper, four baby wipes, and a tennis-ball-sized wad of cat hair later, Tazendra has a buzz cut on her ass. She hates having her butt fur trimmed, but it usually only takes a few seconds. This tried the limits of her patience, and she swiped at me twice and did a lot of bitching and hissing and growling. And now she looks like someone took a weed-whacker to her posterior. She's sitting a lot, and carrying her tail down to disguise it, and I can tell that she is ashamed. I feel a little guilty about it, to tell you the truth. I don't like trimming her pantaloons, since her fur is so pretty and fluffs so adorably when she runs, but there isn't another choice.

So I finally vanquish the Klingons, stand up, and that's when I feel it.

Female TMI. You all know the drill. )

I wind up elbows-deep in the sink washing my underwear out in cold water, feeling very much like one of those creepy Irish ghosts that washes bloody clothes in the river, supposedly presaging the observer's death by violence. Now I will always imagine that the legend of the bean nighe was inspired by some poor woman just trying to dealing with her fucking period laundry. Some guy walking past saw her at it one day and said something smart-mouthed, and the woman said something snarky and Celtic, like "May all the blood that has ever come out of my vagina soak your clothes in the coming battle because someone stabbed you in the face." And he died in the battle, and his friends remembered what she said, and it entered folklore as A Thing. Moral: if a chick is washing blood out of clothes, leave her alone. There is probably no reason for her doing so that does not involve her having a bad day, and you possibly having a worse one.

Not a great way to wind up the evening.

Now I have to go clean the bathroom and check the furniture because god alone knows what else I managed to bleed on without noticing.

I'm told I should find something to be grateful about every day. Today? Thank god I don't have three-inch long butt fur, 'cause this could have been way worse.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Vomito de Gato)
It will not surprise anyone who has ever owned or known a longhaired cat to learn that Tazendra gets dingleberries stuck in her butt fur. Tonight she brought home the motherlode. I will be damned if a single nugget of it reached the litter. So, in the middle of trying to watch a movie and prepare the next [livejournal.com profile] fever_dreams update, I suddenly have a lapful of poopy cat.

I take her to the bathroom to see how bad it is, and realize it's just awful. Either I bathe her, or I trim it all off. Since I'd have to trim it before giving her a bath -- which she hasn't had in 15 years because I frankly think that bathing cats is ludicrous under most circumstances -- I decided to just cut it. It would be easier, I thought.

Ten minutes, half a roll of toilet paper, four baby wipes, and a tennis-ball-sized wad of cat hair later, Tazendra has a buzz cut on her ass. She hates having her butt fur trimmed, but it usually only takes a few seconds. This tried the limits of her patience, and she swiped at me twice and did a lot of bitching and hissing and growling. And now she looks like someone took a weed-whacker to her posterior. She's sitting a lot, and carrying her tail down to disguise it, and I can tell that she is ashamed. I feel a little guilty about it, to tell you the truth. I don't like trimming her pantaloons, since her fur is so pretty and fluffs so adorably when she runs, but there isn't another choice.

So I finally vanquish the Klingons, stand up, and that's when I feel it.

Female TMI. You all know the drill. )

I wind up elbows-deep in the sink washing my underwear out in cold water, feeling very much like one of those creepy Irish ghosts that washes bloody clothes in the river, supposedly presaging the observer's death by violence. Now I will always imagine that the legend of the bean nighe was inspired by some poor woman just trying to dealing with her fucking period laundry. Some guy walking past saw her at it one day and said something smart-mouthed, and the woman said something snarky and Celtic, like "May all the blood that has ever come out of my vagina soak your clothes in the coming battle because someone stabbed you in the face." And he died in the battle, and his friends remembered what she said, and it entered folklore as A Thing. Moral: if a chick is washing blood out of clothes, leave her alone. There is probably no reason for her doing so that does not involve her having a bad day, and you possibly having a worse one.

Not a great way to wind up the evening.

Now I have to go clean the bathroom and check the furniture because god alone knows what else I managed to bleed on without noticing.

I'm told I should find something to be grateful about every day. Today? Thank god I don't have three-inch long butt fur, 'cause this could have been way worse.
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
I hereby dub this worthless gob of flesh the "fuck youterus" into perpetuity. It keeps trying to fuck me over, and all I ever do is give it the bird.

Ow.

Owww.

AND I STILL WANT PIE. I have shitty minions. They're furry and cute, but all they ever do is sit around and lick their butts.
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
I hereby dub this worthless gob of flesh the "fuck youterus" into perpetuity. It keeps trying to fuck me over, and all I ever do is give it the bird.

Ow.

Owww.

AND I STILL WANT PIE. I have shitty minions. They're furry and cute, but all they ever do is sit around and lick their butts.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Give Blood)
I saw a link today to this website, where artist Vanessa Tiegs has made these incredible paintings with her blood – yes, menstrual blood – and was amazed by just how beautiful they are. I think the idea of painting with blood of any kind is fascinating, but most paintings of this type don't interest me, largely because they play into the problems I talk about below. These are easily the best of this type I have yet seen.

I agree with this post at Feministe. Fear of menstrual blood all too often stems from gut-level fear of the devouring, blood-drooling cooch . . . often with a stiff dose of misogyny to back that fear up when logic fails to support it. I personally don't see anything particularly disgusting about menstrual blood. As our waste products go, this is about the only one I would be willing to interact with on a voluntary basis. I get annoyed with it when it gets all over me or when it messes up clothing I have to salvage* or replace, yeah, but the substance itself is just blood.**

But there's only so much uterus-hugging fallopian free-love that I can bear, and I want to point out something that endlessly grinds on my nerves.

You want to love your uterus, your period, if the things that it does are meaningful to you on some greater level, I am completely in favor of that.

What annoys me to no end is the deep-rooted assumption that I, too, should love my period. Fuck that shit. My uterus has been trying to kill me or drive me mad since I was a teenager.*** Even the cradle of life metaphor fails on me. Even if I were sure I could have children, my potential fertility means nothing to me. Oh, sure, I could get all metaphorical about my nonexistent urge to create a human baby being channeled into other creative avenues, but my creative impulses just don't come from my pussy. Sorry.

For a lot of women, the process of coming to terms with or celebrating their periods is a revolutionary one that frees them from the hateful moral baggage our sick and twisted culture places on a simple biological process. I know that it was for me, for a very long time, but eventually I just got so sick of my uterus' antics that I stopped feeling good about it. It kept terrorizing me with its fits and starts and pains, its irregularity and humiliations. Embracing my period is not going to stop the cramps and bleeding. The cramps and bleeding are not a manifestation of my inner goddess and they don't make me more of a woman. My uterus is a wad of flesh, not the seat of my womanhood. I am not communing with the spirits of my foremothers when a sudden sneeze causes me to blow blood clots out of my snatch. That's not how that shit works.

I can't sit there with menstrual blood up to my elbows and say to myself, "Golly, Naamah, you sure are channeling the all-powerful goddess today!" No, I'm sitting there going, "I am bleeding for the sixty-seventh day in a row, I have no clean underwear, and the idiots who lived here before me carpeted the bathroom floor, which I have now bled on for the fifth time in three days. Who am I going to have to kill to make this stop?" Because even for someone with a blood kink? That shit gets old real fast.

It's fucking annoying to have the menstrual cycle lauded as this wonderful empowering thing when it is usually apparent from the language used that it's only the normal menstural cycle that is meant. The percentage of women who have "normal" cycles is tiny, and if you have a difficult uterus, the whole moon-goddess lunar cycle thing sounds a lot less like inspiration and a lot more like all the popular, attractive, well-groomed uteruses sitting on the far side of the lunch room laughing at the broody goth uterus who just got her lunch dumped for the third time that week.

And furthermore, Jesus, there are a hell of a lot of women out there who don't even have uteruses. The presence of absence of an organ, let alone the things it can do, does not define what a woman is.

In fact, I want to kick the whole woman-as-goddess body-process-as-religious-experience mumbo jumbo idea in the ribs, and it doesn't end with menstruation. No, you have to count pregnancy, too. Now, if you personally relate to pregnancy in a sacred way, I can completely see that. But I find the cultural exaltation of pregnancy morally troubling because it leaves women who can't have or don't want kids out in the cold, and it glorifies the biological method of achieving children above the others, which I think is wrong. Not to mention the political problems inherent in glorifying pregnancy in a culture where the choices to not have children or to terminate a pregnancy are viewed with distaste and horror.

I'm not real fond of how our culture only seems to value women's bodies if they are serving as sex objects or as a carpool for fetuses. The capacity and/or willingness of most of my gender to sexually satisfy men and bear their children has absolutely no effect on my own value, thank you very much.

This stuff that women do – like bleeding for a week without dying or, after a nine month drumroll, squeezing a live animal out of their vaginas – that stuff is amazing, but it is not wonderful and magical and uplifting for everyone who does it, and perpetuating the myth that it is or that it should be does nobody any favors.

I personally think the baby/vagina hat trick is amazing, just so you know, but if someone says that going through all the mess and pain was not very spiritually elevating, I am sure not going to argue that they were just looking at it wrong – the same as I would not argue if someone said that the whole process was powerful and revelatory. And if I say that I do not feel goddess-like or magical or powerful in the slightest when I am scrubbing blood out from under my fingernails while my underwear soaks in the sink, I expect folks to take me at my word, not assume I'm some sort of repressed spiritual rube who just can't appreciate what has been given to her.

I would like to see women define their own feelings about their own bodily processes. If that means more menstrual blood paintings, fantastic. My goal is not to stifle joy. But I would also like to see an acknowledgement that it's not joyful for everyone, see some art that talks about that, so that people who have less than ideal experiences with their bodies have a place to work with those experiences.

Bodies are wonderful, but not everything that bodies do is wonderful or a secret source of mojo. Some of it downright sucks. And in trying to divorce our bodies from all this moral cargo and normalize the female experience, we sometimes forget that we can be inconvenienced or annoyed by what our female bodies do without hating ourselves for being female.

The antidote to the idea that women are animals is not putting them on a pedestal like goddesses, exalting even their effluvia. These things don't make us gross or scary or dirty, no. Those things can even be beautiful and meaningful. I think that's a really great lesson to learn, and it's one that we desperately need to keep teaching. But these things don't make us into superwomen, either.

These things make us human. Isn't that the status we have been seeking? Isn't that what has been denied to us all this time?

I'm tired of these processes being used to "other" women, to set them either below or above "other people," i.e. men.

We are people. Not people "with a difference," but actual people.

Such a simple truth, and such a great shock and offense to so many.

* Hydrogen peroxide and cold water, scrub out from the opposite side of the stain. They should print this on every pad and tampon box and wrapper.

** Plus other stuff, yes, but visually, olfactorily, texture- and flavor-wise it can sometimes be indistinguishable from blood.

*** Do not under any circumstances offer me medical advice, okay? I've heard it, tried it, researched it all. Period. Ha ha.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Give Blood)
I saw a link today to this website, where artist Vanessa Tiegs has made these incredible paintings with her blood – yes, menstrual blood – and was amazed by just how beautiful they are. I think the idea of painting with blood of any kind is fascinating, but most paintings of this type don't interest me, largely because they play into the problems I talk about below. These are easily the best of this type I have yet seen.

I agree with this post at Feministe. Fear of menstrual blood all too often stems from gut-level fear of the devouring, blood-drooling cooch . . . often with a stiff dose of misogyny to back that fear up when logic fails to support it. I personally don't see anything particularly disgusting about menstrual blood. As our waste products go, this is about the only one I would be willing to interact with on a voluntary basis. I get annoyed with it when it gets all over me or when it messes up clothing I have to salvage* or replace, yeah, but the substance itself is just blood.**

But there's only so much uterus-hugging fallopian free-love that I can bear, and I want to point out something that endlessly grinds on my nerves.

You want to love your uterus, your period, if the things that it does are meaningful to you on some greater level, I am completely in favor of that.

What annoys me to no end is the deep-rooted assumption that I, too, should love my period. Fuck that shit. My uterus has been trying to kill me or drive me mad since I was a teenager.*** Even the cradle of life metaphor fails on me. Even if I were sure I could have children, my potential fertility means nothing to me. Oh, sure, I could get all metaphorical about my nonexistent urge to create a human baby being channeled into other creative avenues, but my creative impulses just don't come from my pussy. Sorry.

For a lot of women, the process of coming to terms with or celebrating their periods is a revolutionary one that frees them from the hateful moral baggage our sick and twisted culture places on a simple biological process. I know that it was for me, for a very long time, but eventually I just got so sick of my uterus' antics that I stopped feeling good about it. It kept terrorizing me with its fits and starts and pains, its irregularity and humiliations. Embracing my period is not going to stop the cramps and bleeding. The cramps and bleeding are not a manifestation of my inner goddess and they don't make me more of a woman. My uterus is a wad of flesh, not the seat of my womanhood. I am not communing with the spirits of my foremothers when a sudden sneeze causes me to blow blood clots out of my snatch. That's not how that shit works.

I can't sit there with menstrual blood up to my elbows and say to myself, "Golly, Naamah, you sure are channeling the all-powerful goddess today!" No, I'm sitting there going, "I am bleeding for the sixty-seventh day in a row, I have no clean underwear, and the idiots who lived here before me carpeted the bathroom floor, which I have now bled on for the fifth time in three days. Who am I going to have to kill to make this stop?" Because even for someone with a blood kink? That shit gets old real fast.

It's fucking annoying to have the menstrual cycle lauded as this wonderful empowering thing when it is usually apparent from the language used that it's only the normal menstural cycle that is meant. The percentage of women who have "normal" cycles is tiny, and if you have a difficult uterus, the whole moon-goddess lunar cycle thing sounds a lot less like inspiration and a lot more like all the popular, attractive, well-groomed uteruses sitting on the far side of the lunch room laughing at the broody goth uterus who just got her lunch dumped for the third time that week.

And furthermore, Jesus, there are a hell of a lot of women out there who don't even have uteruses. The presence of absence of an organ, let alone the things it can do, does not define what a woman is.

In fact, I want to kick the whole woman-as-goddess body-process-as-religious-experience mumbo jumbo idea in the ribs, and it doesn't end with menstruation. No, you have to count pregnancy, too. Now, if you personally relate to pregnancy in a sacred way, I can completely see that. But I find the cultural exaltation of pregnancy morally troubling because it leaves women who can't have or don't want kids out in the cold, and it glorifies the biological method of achieving children above the others, which I think is wrong. Not to mention the political problems inherent in glorifying pregnancy in a culture where the choices to not have children or to terminate a pregnancy are viewed with distaste and horror.

I'm not real fond of how our culture only seems to value women's bodies if they are serving as sex objects or as a carpool for fetuses. The capacity and/or willingness of most of my gender to sexually satisfy men and bear their children has absolutely no effect on my own value, thank you very much.

This stuff that women do – like bleeding for a week without dying or, after a nine month drumroll, squeezing a live animal out of their vaginas – that stuff is amazing, but it is not wonderful and magical and uplifting for everyone who does it, and perpetuating the myth that it is or that it should be does nobody any favors.

I personally think the baby/vagina hat trick is amazing, just so you know, but if someone says that going through all the mess and pain was not very spiritually elevating, I am sure not going to argue that they were just looking at it wrong – the same as I would not argue if someone said that the whole process was powerful and revelatory. And if I say that I do not feel goddess-like or magical or powerful in the slightest when I am scrubbing blood out from under my fingernails while my underwear soaks in the sink, I expect folks to take me at my word, not assume I'm some sort of repressed spiritual rube who just can't appreciate what has been given to her.

I would like to see women define their own feelings about their own bodily processes. If that means more menstrual blood paintings, fantastic. My goal is not to stifle joy. But I would also like to see an acknowledgement that it's not joyful for everyone, see some art that talks about that, so that people who have less than ideal experiences with their bodies have a place to work with those experiences.

Bodies are wonderful, but not everything that bodies do is wonderful or a secret source of mojo. Some of it downright sucks. And in trying to divorce our bodies from all this moral cargo and normalize the female experience, we sometimes forget that we can be inconvenienced or annoyed by what our female bodies do without hating ourselves for being female.

The antidote to the idea that women are animals is not putting them on a pedestal like goddesses, exalting even their effluvia. These things don't make us gross or scary or dirty, no. Those things can even be beautiful and meaningful. I think that's a really great lesson to learn, and it's one that we desperately need to keep teaching. But these things don't make us into superwomen, either.

These things make us human. Isn't that the status we have been seeking? Isn't that what has been denied to us all this time?

I'm tired of these processes being used to "other" women, to set them either below or above "other people," i.e. men.

We are people. Not people "with a difference," but actual people.

Such a simple truth, and such a great shock and offense to so many.

* Hydrogen peroxide and cold water, scrub out from the opposite side of the stain. They should print this on every pad and tampon box and wrapper.

** Plus other stuff, yes, but visually, olfactorily, texture- and flavor-wise it can sometimes be indistinguishable from blood.

*** Do not under any circumstances offer me medical advice, okay? I've heard it, tried it, researched it all. Period. Ha ha.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
That was an interesting visit.

The doctor, henceforth called "Boots," spent about half an hour discussing options and likely treatments with me. In the end, I elected the way of pain to begin with the least invasive option and work up from there. So: the Mirena IUD. And it frankly shocked the hell out of me when he indicated he could try to put it in today if I was comfortable with that. Which, not wanting to fuck with multiple appointments, I was.

Cut for anatomy. )

I am not in any real pain right now, but I am getting the occasional unpleasant sensation from down below, and if I move around my body tells me to go lay down right now. I think the latter may just be aftereffects from nerves, which were making me shake so badly in the waiting room that I couldn't read the book I was holding.

Anyway, the micro-doses the Mirena delivers directly to the uterine tissue will, in theory, lessen my periods significantly and hopefully eliminate them, without giving me any of the horrifying emotional effects of hormone pills. I know as many people this has worked for as people it has not worked for, so I am totally willing to give it some time to do its thing.

We did not discuss diagnostics in detail at this time. I will return to that issue with him the next time I see him, if we deem it necessary. It's probably either fucked hormones or fibroids, and neither condition will be worsened by this or kill me if left alone. Even with a diagnosis of either, we would be doing this same damn thing. If it stops this bleeding shit, I will happily leave it at that until menopause.

Overall, this guy was incredibly smart. He was on the team that studied the effectiveness of uterine ablation and discovered at the same time that the Mirena reduces excessive bleeding. Interesting story there. In short, he's the best damn GYN in the state, which I knew before I went to see him. For the sorts of things he does (ablation, sterilization, that sort of thing) he is one of the three most highly-trained guys in the country.

I have finally found a decent doctor, I think.

Doc Boots is very gentle and kind, he has soft hands, he's sweet, he listens and believes everything I say.

Extra-cool? The clinic attached to the Planned Parenthood he works at apparently provides extensive medical services for low-income women, including low-cost/free sterilization. I did not talk to him about this, didn't have time, but that information came from the website and from stuff in the waiting room. Next time I see him I will definitely be pestering him for more information about that. I don't need it, really, but there are lots of people who do.

But how cool is it that this guy is so passionate about health care -- good health care -- for poor women? The facility is also pretty Spanish-friendly. I really like this guy. He cares about women, and that is obvious.

I am still exhausted from the stress of the whole thing. It's not even a voluntary reaction, it's a stupid instinctive physical thing that I can't control, and it pisses me off. All I can do is go easy on myself and assume that next time, my lizard brain will remember that this wasn't so bad and will stop telling me to run away.

Thanks, everyone, for your support. Last night and this morning truly did suck, because anxiety is like that. Thanks, too, to the lovely friends who offered to go with me. If I had known there was going to be that kind of pain involved, I would have accepted, but I didn't know, and that turns out to have been okay anyway.

Thus I continue in my tradition of being stupidly proud of myself for doing shit that other adults do all the time.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
That was an interesting visit.

The doctor, henceforth called "Boots," spent about half an hour discussing options and likely treatments with me. In the end, I elected the way of pain to begin with the least invasive option and work up from there. So: the Mirena IUD. And it frankly shocked the hell out of me when he indicated he could try to put it in today if I was comfortable with that. Which, not wanting to fuck with multiple appointments, I was.

Cut for anatomy. )

I am not in any real pain right now, but I am getting the occasional unpleasant sensation from down below, and if I move around my body tells me to go lay down right now. I think the latter may just be aftereffects from nerves, which were making me shake so badly in the waiting room that I couldn't read the book I was holding.

Anyway, the micro-doses the Mirena delivers directly to the uterine tissue will, in theory, lessen my periods significantly and hopefully eliminate them, without giving me any of the horrifying emotional effects of hormone pills. I know as many people this has worked for as people it has not worked for, so I am totally willing to give it some time to do its thing.

We did not discuss diagnostics in detail at this time. I will return to that issue with him the next time I see him, if we deem it necessary. It's probably either fucked hormones or fibroids, and neither condition will be worsened by this or kill me if left alone. Even with a diagnosis of either, we would be doing this same damn thing. If it stops this bleeding shit, I will happily leave it at that until menopause.

Overall, this guy was incredibly smart. He was on the team that studied the effectiveness of uterine ablation and discovered at the same time that the Mirena reduces excessive bleeding. Interesting story there. In short, he's the best damn GYN in the state, which I knew before I went to see him. For the sorts of things he does (ablation, sterilization, that sort of thing) he is one of the three most highly-trained guys in the country.

I have finally found a decent doctor, I think.

Doc Boots is very gentle and kind, he has soft hands, he's sweet, he listens and believes everything I say.

Extra-cool? The clinic attached to the Planned Parenthood he works at apparently provides extensive medical services for low-income women, including low-cost/free sterilization. I did not talk to him about this, didn't have time, but that information came from the website and from stuff in the waiting room. Next time I see him I will definitely be pestering him for more information about that. I don't need it, really, but there are lots of people who do.

But how cool is it that this guy is so passionate about health care -- good health care -- for poor women? The facility is also pretty Spanish-friendly. I really like this guy. He cares about women, and that is obvious.

I am still exhausted from the stress of the whole thing. It's not even a voluntary reaction, it's a stupid instinctive physical thing that I can't control, and it pisses me off. All I can do is go easy on myself and assume that next time, my lizard brain will remember that this wasn't so bad and will stop telling me to run away.

Thanks, everyone, for your support. Last night and this morning truly did suck, because anxiety is like that. Thanks, too, to the lovely friends who offered to go with me. If I had known there was going to be that kind of pain involved, I would have accepted, but I didn't know, and that turns out to have been okay anyway.

Thus I continue in my tradition of being stupidly proud of myself for doing shit that other adults do all the time.

More TMI!

Jul. 1st, 2009 04:12 pm
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
So my uterus has decided to try to throw me off the warpath by abruptly ceasing all hostilities. It stopped bleeding on Monday, like someone had switched off a faucet.* And you know, while I am glad to no longer be gushing blood from unauthorized regions, I am not backing down. You don't get to fuck with me like that and not pay for it. And I want to make sure this never happens again.

The plan right now, as much as I do not want to do this, is to keep my appointment so that I can ask the doctor to find out what was causing it. Not that I expect he will find anything, since it's, you know, completely fucking stopped, but at least I can discuss the problem with him and get him to agree to see me ASAP when it next occurs.

And who knows? Maybe he'll get lucky and find some fibroids or something, and then I will have something to put down on the eviction notice.

Overall I am just fed up with this fucking passive-aggressive pile of mystery meat. It keeps trying to fuck up my life, and somehow it keeps getting away with it. I am sick of its crap. I may not have it out, but I am certainly going to find out what the best options are, and I will punish appropriately.

I'm offering this in the spirit of . . . well . . . of not wanting to play catch-up later on, really. I'm not asking for help. So, no unsolicited advice, please. We've covered this one. I've been dealing with this since I was sixteen. I have been reading about it voraciously for half my life. Whatever treatment you have discovered? I know about it.

* I know you are all just fascinated, but the truth is that unless I write shit down, I forget it, and I need to remember the date I quit gushing blood.

More TMI!

Jul. 1st, 2009 04:12 pm
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
So my uterus has decided to try to throw me off the warpath by abruptly ceasing all hostilities. It stopped bleeding on Monday, like someone had switched off a faucet.* And you know, while I am glad to no longer be gushing blood from unauthorized regions, I am not backing down. You don't get to fuck with me like that and not pay for it. And I want to make sure this never happens again.

The plan right now, as much as I do not want to do this, is to keep my appointment so that I can ask the doctor to find out what was causing it. Not that I expect he will find anything, since it's, you know, completely fucking stopped, but at least I can discuss the problem with him and get him to agree to see me ASAP when it next occurs.

And who knows? Maybe he'll get lucky and find some fibroids or something, and then I will have something to put down on the eviction notice.

Overall I am just fed up with this fucking passive-aggressive pile of mystery meat. It keeps trying to fuck up my life, and somehow it keeps getting away with it. I am sick of its crap. I may not have it out, but I am certainly going to find out what the best options are, and I will punish appropriately.

I'm offering this in the spirit of . . . well . . . of not wanting to play catch-up later on, really. I'm not asking for help. So, no unsolicited advice, please. We've covered this one. I've been dealing with this since I was sixteen. I have been reading about it voraciously for half my life. Whatever treatment you have discovered? I know about it.

* I know you are all just fascinated, but the truth is that unless I write shit down, I forget it, and I need to remember the date I quit gushing blood.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
I have to say that so far, of the progesterone side effects, I much prefer the dizziness and disorientation to the fits of uncontrollable rage.

My hands feel really far away, and my forehead feels older than the rest of me. I mean, I could look forward to this.

I think I will call my doctor, because this is awesome, but probably not what he intended. And I am still a gore-spewing superhero, so the drug is fail.

RAAAAAAAAAAH!
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
Hey, I figure you all have better experience with anemia caused by *ahem* pernicious blood loss than the online medical BS sites, so I thought I would ask you:

Is persistent queasiness or mild nausea associated with this kind of anemia for you? I have had a shitty appetite for a couple of weeks now, and now I just feel slightly ill 2/3 of the time. Not like I'm going to hwarf, but like if I ate something, it wouldn't sit well, you know? Food hasn't been disagreeing with me, though. Not much more than usual.

Please don't hesitate to say no, you don't get queasy. I'm needing to differentiate this from something going on with my meds or the onset of seasonal allergies, so honesty is appreciated.

Also, no, you don't have to tell me to see my doctor. I still want to hear what you have to say, since I can't get to my doctor for a few days at least. And I have no idea where to start with the laundry list of shit that is not going well.

Also, my cats are so goddamn cute, you have no idea. Pics soon.
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
Hey, I figure you all have better experience with anemia caused by *ahem* pernicious blood loss than the online medical BS sites, so I thought I would ask you:

Is persistent queasiness or mild nausea associated with this kind of anemia for you? I have had a shitty appetite for a couple of weeks now, and now I just feel slightly ill 2/3 of the time. Not like I'm going to hwarf, but like if I ate something, it wouldn't sit well, you know? Food hasn't been disagreeing with me, though. Not much more than usual.

Please don't hesitate to say no, you don't get queasy. I'm needing to differentiate this from something going on with my meds or the onset of seasonal allergies, so honesty is appreciated.

Also, no, you don't have to tell me to see my doctor. I still want to hear what you have to say, since I can't get to my doctor for a few days at least. And I have no idea where to start with the laundry list of shit that is not going well.

Also, my cats are so goddamn cute, you have no idea. Pics soon.
naamah_darling: A wolf with its jaws wide open, and FUCK! written between them. (Fuck!)
Sooo, the Uterus That Would Not Die? It's trying to kill me again. Or drive me to suicide. A subtle distinction often lost on bystanders, who are chiefly concerned with dodging fountains of gore.

This time it has resorted to a tactic I thought it had abandoned way back in 1998 or '99. You know, last century. It is trying to make me bleed to death. That's right, the period that won't end has returned.

The irony that I have recently moved into a house with a white bathroom is not lost on me. It's like the ultimate case of not being able to go out in white pants because you will inevitably bleed all over them, even if your uterus is in a different county. At least the wallpaper is washable vinyl.

Nobody has ever been able to tell me why this happens. Not for sure. I have, personally, stopped caring. Pretty much all I care about is getting it to stop. Last time, the small army of incredibly irresponsible and stupid doctors I foolhardily employed to fix it tried a neverending cycle of pointless exams and hormone therapy, all of which proved to be a very bad idea. I am not doing that again. I am through fucking around. I strongly suspect that the goddamn thing is going to have to come out.

I am not pleased about this at all. A hysterectomy would require far too much contact with doctors for my liking.* If, however, it would save me from having to deal with the uterus from hell, I will endeavor to persevere.

The only reason I am sharing this with you is so that when the article appears in the paper detailing how I strangled some stupid asshole with his own stethoscope, you will know what probably precipitated it. And also so that when I annouce that I'm having parts of me removed and incinerated, you will not think I have gone out of my mind.

I would like to add, in closing, that we are without insurance at the moment,** and that I am in no mental state to deal with this crap right now. In fact, this is a very bad time, as I am, in colloquial parlance, all fucked up. I needed this like I need railspikes in my brain.

I am so pissed off about this. You have no idea. You really don't. Fuck cookies. Fuck chocolate. I want fucking blood. And it would be really, really nice if it were not coming from my vagina, thank you.

If I want medical advice, I will totally ask for it. Leave this between me and my doctor.

* When I say I am iatrophobic, I am not being as precise as I would like. There is no single verb meaning "to loathe and distrust someone to the point of wishing I could carry a gun into the exam room with me, because there have been times I needed it." They are fucking evil fucks, barring a few who may not have shown it yet -- you can never tell. And yet, if you let on that you know they are lying bastards, and you call them on their underhanded bullshit, they get really pissed off. Even when you are totally right.

** Belay the COBRA stuff. We're looking into it.
naamah_darling: A wolf with its jaws wide open, and FUCK! written between them. (Fuck!)
Sooo, the Uterus That Would Not Die? It's trying to kill me again. Or drive me to suicide. A subtle distinction often lost on bystanders, who are chiefly concerned with dodging fountains of gore.

This time it has resorted to a tactic I thought it had abandoned way back in 1998 or '99. You know, last century. It is trying to make me bleed to death. That's right, the period that won't end has returned.

The irony that I have recently moved into a house with a white bathroom is not lost on me. It's like the ultimate case of not being able to go out in white pants because you will inevitably bleed all over them, even if your uterus is in a different county. At least the wallpaper is washable vinyl.

Nobody has ever been able to tell me why this happens. Not for sure. I have, personally, stopped caring. Pretty much all I care about is getting it to stop. Last time, the small army of incredibly irresponsible and stupid doctors I foolhardily employed to fix it tried a neverending cycle of pointless exams and hormone therapy, all of which proved to be a very bad idea. I am not doing that again. I am through fucking around. I strongly suspect that the goddamn thing is going to have to come out.

I am not pleased about this at all. A hysterectomy would require far too much contact with doctors for my liking.* If, however, it would save me from having to deal with the uterus from hell, I will endeavor to persevere.

The only reason I am sharing this with you is so that when the article appears in the paper detailing how I strangled some stupid asshole with his own stethoscope, you will know what probably precipitated it. And also so that when I annouce that I'm having parts of me removed and incinerated, you will not think I have gone out of my mind.

I would like to add, in closing, that we are without insurance at the moment,** and that I am in no mental state to deal with this crap right now. In fact, this is a very bad time, as I am, in colloquial parlance, all fucked up. I needed this like I need railspikes in my brain.

I am so pissed off about this. You have no idea. You really don't. Fuck cookies. Fuck chocolate. I want fucking blood. And it would be really, really nice if it were not coming from my vagina, thank you.

If I want medical advice, I will totally ask for it. Leave this between me and my doctor.

* When I say I am iatrophobic, I am not being as precise as I would like. There is no single verb meaning "to loathe and distrust someone to the point of wishing I could carry a gun into the exam room with me, because there have been times I needed it." They are fucking evil fucks, barring a few who may not have shown it yet -- you can never tell. And yet, if you let on that you know they are lying bastards, and you call them on their underhanded bullshit, they get really pissed off. Even when you are totally right.

** Belay the COBRA stuff. We're looking into it.
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
This. Hurts.

It's not that the pain is that bad. It's like a stubbed toe in my groin - achy, sometimes sharp. It's that it does not go away no matter what I do to it.

Even after a heating pad, four ibuprofen, two cats, and one application of Dracula 2000, I still feel like kicking in puppy skulls and biting through whole babies.

The menstrual fairy made her debut today unexpectedly, prompting a torrent of wolverine-like noises and piratical swearing that sent the cats into hiding. It also interrupted some well-laid plans. I am now somewhat less than well-laid.

I am tired and cranky and behind on everything and, just to make things interesting, randier than a fucking polecat. I can't concentrate on anything but Tom Welling's ass.

I beg you lot to throw pictures of pretty boys at me until I feel better. Bonus points for introducing me to hotness of which I was formerly unaware.
naamah_darling: Intentionally hilarious cutesy illustration of a super-adorable anime girl with blood pouring from her crotch. (Menstrual)
This. Hurts.

It's not that the pain is that bad. It's like a stubbed toe in my groin - achy, sometimes sharp. It's that it does not go away no matter what I do to it.

Even after a heating pad, four ibuprofen, two cats, and one application of Dracula 2000, I still feel like kicking in puppy skulls and biting through whole babies.

The menstrual fairy made her debut today unexpectedly, prompting a torrent of wolverine-like noises and piratical swearing that sent the cats into hiding. It also interrupted some well-laid plans. I am now somewhat less than well-laid.

I am tired and cranky and behind on everything and, just to make things interesting, randier than a fucking polecat. I can't concentrate on anything but Tom Welling's ass.

I beg you lot to throw pictures of pretty boys at me until I feel better. Bonus points for introducing me to hotness of which I was formerly unaware.

Meh.

Jun. 4th, 2008 03:02 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
Yesterday was . . . a day. Like any other day. Only worse.

I was too worried about other crap to really enjoy myself much. Dinner was other people talking. The high point of the night was when my dad began discussing the uncut version of Caligula with my in-laws. I think that may, in fact, have been the high point of the week.

He then lay down what I am pretty sure was a complete line of bullshit about how Mom proposed to him by telling him she was pregnant, and how he falsified first his driver's license and then his birth certificate in order to get married legally, whereupon he called the DA and asked exactly how much trouble he was in. There is a thread of truth in most of my fathers' stories -- he is not habitually a liar, though he does enjoy occasionally pulling legs -- but if the entirety of that yarn was true, I will eat it and crap a knitted scarf.

This is all just as well. I was in a Mood. If he hadn't entertained me, I'd have entertained myself by talking about Rasputin's pickled penis, or about porn, or buttsex, or all three, and that never leads anywhere good.

Of course, no family event is complete without a roll on the wandering anatomical event table, and adding a birthday in is just adding a +5 modifier. In the middle of dinner I realized that feminine TMI was about to occur when a stabbing pain made itself known in my groinal region. I made it home in time to contain it, but I am now achy and cranky, and that is all the complaining I will do about that, because I don't think I get to complain about cramps when a friend just had a bad go-round with a kidney stone.

I will say that at least two friends are in this boat with me, and even with company, it sucks.

Sargon supplied presents, however, and I am happy with that. I got an excellent shirt:



"Better living through merciless experimentation" is probably one of the better mottos I've seen.

The high point of the night was definitely torturing captives. Nothing like roleplaying a pirate to take the edge off one's frustrations. Alas, I am afraid I could roleplay for three days solid and still not work through all my hostilities.

I spent most of today in pain from the aforementioned TMI, and aside from time spent with friends and silly dogs, today had very little to recommend it.

That's . . . pretty much all the update I have tonight.

Meh.

Jun. 4th, 2008 03:02 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
Yesterday was . . . a day. Like any other day. Only worse.

I was too worried about other crap to really enjoy myself much. Dinner was other people talking. The high point of the night was when my dad began discussing the uncut version of Caligula with my in-laws. I think that may, in fact, have been the high point of the week.

He then lay down what I am pretty sure was a complete line of bullshit about how Mom proposed to him by telling him she was pregnant, and how he falsified first his driver's license and then his birth certificate in order to get married legally, whereupon he called the DA and asked exactly how much trouble he was in. There is a thread of truth in most of my fathers' stories -- he is not habitually a liar, though he does enjoy occasionally pulling legs -- but if the entirety of that yarn was true, I will eat it and crap a knitted scarf.

This is all just as well. I was in a Mood. If he hadn't entertained me, I'd have entertained myself by talking about Rasputin's pickled penis, or about porn, or buttsex, or all three, and that never leads anywhere good.

Of course, no family event is complete without a roll on the wandering anatomical event table, and adding a birthday in is just adding a +5 modifier. In the middle of dinner I realized that feminine TMI was about to occur when a stabbing pain made itself known in my groinal region. I made it home in time to contain it, but I am now achy and cranky, and that is all the complaining I will do about that, because I don't think I get to complain about cramps when a friend just had a bad go-round with a kidney stone.

I will say that at least two friends are in this boat with me, and even with company, it sucks.

Sargon supplied presents, however, and I am happy with that. I got an excellent shirt:



"Better living through merciless experimentation" is probably one of the better mottos I've seen.

The high point of the night was definitely torturing captives. Nothing like roleplaying a pirate to take the edge off one's frustrations. Alas, I am afraid I could roleplay for three days solid and still not work through all my hostilities.

I spent most of today in pain from the aforementioned TMI, and aside from time spent with friends and silly dogs, today had very little to recommend it.

That's . . . pretty much all the update I have tonight.

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