[My apologies to the lovely Alice Bradley, whose blog I have been re-reading in its entirety, who frequently lamented her inability to post on a regular schedule. See? I'm not mocking! I'm just repeating her joke! Because I love her so much! I am not a creep.]
When God's Mistake His Royal Cheetoh-ness was elected, I flipped an entire shit and booked a quick visit to Planned Parenthood (who I support with both my mouth and my money, and you should too. Click here to donate, and click here for information on how to donate in Mike Pence's name, because that's just fucking hilarious) just in case my ability to do so disappeared because the clinics got defunded and/or were not allowed to give birth control anymore under the new (piece of shit) administration, and I got the Mirena IUD shoved up my hoohah. I took a photo for posterity, because, fuck yes, and it only hurt a lot and made me bleed profusely and cramp worse than normal, which is about a 6 on the 10-is-the-most pain scale.
Before getting this weird little plastic fun-fest shoved into my cervix, I did my research. I had heard a plethora of personal horror stories about the arm-thingie (Implanon/Nexplanon, which is inserted into the arm, stops your period and monthly cycles completely, and is 100% effective, but has side effects not unlike the apocalypse, but you do you, boo), am irresponsible with the pill (I always forget to take it, which is stupid, because I take eleven medications every single day and never forget those) and no doctor will let me get my tubes tired or take out my lady business, no matter how hard I try and convince them to.
I wanted a low-hormone IUD. Hormone-ed because it lessens your period and helps with cramping, and my period is a bitch, and an IUD because it is the only other option outside of stocking up on Plan B, condoms, and spermicidal lube, none of which I want to carry in my purse, and all of which I have had scares with (these were my only options because of aforementioned issues with pill/arm-thingie/etc). I told the nurse this. We talked about my options for almost an hour, because she seriously believed the arm implant was my best option and wanted to convince me that no two bodies are the same, and just because everyone I know who has had it had terrible side effects does not necessarily mean that I would, too. Bullshit, ma'am, I'm not risking it, 20+ pound weight gain, miserable bitch syndrome, pubescent acne, and an increased risk of interference with my already-serious psychiatric issues? BYE. I finally convinced her to give me what I had carefully chosen for good reason, and so she did.
Fast forward five days, and I am sitting in the car trying not to scream, contemplating how easy it would be to take too many pills, barely making it home and crying so hard that I nearly vomited, and it hit me:
I CANNOT TAKE BIRTH CONTROL WITH HORMONES. MY HORMONES ARE ALREADY FUCKED UP AND MY BRAIN DOES NOT DO WELL WITH ADDITIONAL FUCKERY.
I immediately called and scheduled an appointment to get my IUD removed, and then I waited. My appointment was a week away. During that week, I barely ate, could not get out of bed, had horrible cramping, cried almost nonstop, treated everyone around me like garbage, and came very close to checking myself into the hospital. It was BAD. I was scared.
I was also proud.
I realized pretty quickly what the problem was and did something to fix it. Never in the history of my battle with mental illness have I been able to do that. NEVER. NOT ONCE. This is huge.
I went in after that LOOOOONG week and let them know what was up. The doctor tried to convince me to leave it in, but once I told her that while I had not hurt myself, I feared that I was at risk for it, she said no more and pulled that sucker out. I promptly came home and cried, and then I got my period AGAIN, for the SECOND TIME THIS MONTH, and it was horrible. I have gotten out of bed every single day this week, though, so it was all worth it.
I plan on going back in to get the non-hormonal version of my old IUD, but I don't feel like doing it right now, and to be honest, there is nothing going or coming from that particular orifice, nor will there be any time soon, so I have less risk than the Virgin Mary of getting knocked up. I'm a little afraid, though, because the severity with which this knocked me on my ass was swift and horrible, and even though it is irrational to think that a non-hormonal thing would cause hormonal imbalances, I am not one for logic when it comes to messing up my mental health. I can wait. Until January 20th, I am safe.
All that being said, I haven't written much because I was losing my shit. Before that, I was struggling to write frequently because I felt overwhelmed by another health issue involving my heart. After 31 days with a monitor, a heart sono, hospital stay, and tilt-table test, I got a fun POTS (postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome) and vasovagal syncope. I also found out that my esophagus is acting absurd and insane because of stress directly related to my living situation, the job from hell that I was recently dismissed from (due to my absences related to my health), and inadequate medication, which I think I have fixed but still worry about. My body is finally on the upswing, and I am trying my hardest to keep it that way.
I want to tell you that I'm not scared about what's to come. I want to promise that I'll post frequently. I want to make you understand that I am ready and willing to do whatever I can to help those who will suffer more greatly than I under the tiny hands of the newest Adolf, and I hope you can understand why I hate him and what he is saying he will do.
I can't promise much, though. I am scared to death. I have a Whisky show in 22 days, but I can't be excited because I'm nervous. I've never played a big show without a shot or two in my system, and I'm going on nine months without a single sip of anything fermented.
Things are rough and windy and I'm scared.
I am doing my damnedest, and I will write when I can.
Oh, and if you want me to build, design, and run your personal or professional website or social media, hit me up at firstname.lastname@example.org!
Till... fuck, I don't know.