Turning Anger into Opportunity
The last few weeks have seen some ups and downs. Last week I endured a course of metronidazole that made me feel like death. The treatment was a necessary evil. I had a flare of endometriosis and when that happens, I sometimes end up with bacterial overgrowth (otherwise known as bacterial vaginosis, or BV). This causes a host of uncomfortable symptoms but one of them is pain during sex. And, I love sex so I find that symptom particularly distressing and utterly unacceptable.
Does this opener to my post make you squeamish? It should, and yet this is something I have endured in secret for decades while doctors dismissed my symptoms as being a mere nuisance. This last time was different because my regular guy wasn’t available for an appointment when I had a flare. I saw a different doctor - a female - who diagnosed me on the spot. I followed her recommendations to try all kinds of remedies before resorting to the oral metronidazole. One of the remedies involved shooting boric acid up my vag. That’s right – I fucking injected my vagina with roach poison. Awesome. You cannot make this up. I googled it and it’s a real thing. Go figure.
Anyway, when even the roach poison didn’t scare my vagina back into submission, I did the only thing that has proven effective in the past. I popped open a vial of vile metronidazole pills to shock my body back into homeostasis. It worked, but not without discomfort. I spent a week enduring nausea, dizziness, disorientation, depression, and near fainting spells. Even nearly a week after I completed my treatment, I feel as though I have been hit by a car. A good friend has been super supportive during this ordeal and has delivered ginger ale, homemade cookies, and hugs. Thank God for female camaraderie.
One positive outcome of this experience is that I’m no longer afraid to talk about BV, and learned there is empirical evidence that endometriosis, as an inflammatory condition, triggers immune dysfunction and opportunistic infections. There are apparently now a few people in the world who are researching these connections, and I hope to connect to them to offer myself as a study candidate. Additionally, I learned that I’m far from the only person in my circle who has experienced what I now not-so-fondly refer to as “angry vagina syndrome.” I finally feel more comfortable speaking freely about this (obviously), and in doing so, I believe I’m empowering others who may have been suffering in isolation. That said, I’m certain if there was a male equivalent to BV, there would be a far less toxic remedy than roach poison or metronidazole. Oh well.
During my recent experience with angry vagina syndrome, I also learned that men who like to be dominating don’t work for me, because it apparently makes my angry vagina fucking furious. Don’t get me wrong – I love to be thrown up against a wall and grabbed in all the right places. But someone who tells me he will get off by beating up my cervix is probably not for me. I also learned I don’t like being bitten. As if a furious vagina was not bad enough, my last sexual encounter resulted in bruises all over my body from where my partner du jour decided to chow down. He remarked that I have lush and beautiful skin, so when the bruises emerged, I sent him photos and told him he had defiled that lush skin. I also told him I never wanted to repeat our encounter. I’m proud of myself for speaking up, but next time someone bites me like that I think I’ll kick him in the balls before there’s any opportunity for bruising. Now I know. BDSMers need not apply.
On a positive note, I did meet someone awesome. I don’t believe in checklists but if I had one, he would have gotten an A+ on the test. He’s adorable, tall, funny, smart as all hell, generous, communicative, shares my politics (for starters, he actually cares about politics, which is huge for me), and also shares my taste in music. That last part is kind of critical for me. Some time ago, a friend commented that she was annoyed by all the online daters who said they wanted to find someone who loves music. There’s a reason she and I are no longer friends.
Anyway, so here’s this awesome guy, who by the way is not only awesome but immensely fuckable. I was quite excited for an encounter that would celebrate the restoration of my vagina to being a happy and healthy place in which to exist. So, what went wrong? It turns out the guy is still married. I have heard the line about the divorce not being final before, and it never ends well. So while not a total deal killer, because I recognize that every situation is unique, it’s also not my ideal. My discomfort with the whole thing, which based on past experiences really ought to be understandable, may have been my own undoing.
In the meantime, I’m continuing to take steps to invest in myself and my now happy vag. Speaking of, I have talked a lot about a word that begins with the letter, “v” but I would be failing in my role as a public health advocate if I didn’t remind everyone that “vaccination” is also an incredibly sexy word. I’m awaiting an opportunity to get a booster. Let me remind all of you that the vaccines are far safer than Covid-19. Also, unless we all do our part and get vaccinated, the SARS CoV-2 virus will continue to mutate to the point that it evades protection of the vaccines. If that happens, we’ll be right back to where we were. I tweeted about this recently, and someone misunderstood my comment and accused me of being an anti-vaxxer. I realized that being labeled an anti-vaxxer is a far worse insult than any of my exes or elementary school bullies ever hurled at me. Vaccination is not a personal choice. It’s a moral and public health imperative. Getting vaccinated is the only patriotic, compassionate thing to do at this point, and I won’t tolerate any arguments to the contrary. If you don’t want to get vaccinated, don’t show up to hospitals looking for medical treatment when you get sick. That IS your choice, and it should be one you make if you can’t set aside the conspiracies and do the right thing.
There, so this post wasn’t just about my vagina. You’re welcome. But since I do so love speaking about my vagina, let us get back to the regularly scheduled program. Last weekend I saw a house for sale that made my heart skip a beat. Upon entering the master bedroom, I told my broker I felt I would have great sex in that room. I had resigned myself to staying in the charming family home I bought for my ex, but the small and romantic urban home for one might be in the cards for me. My mortgage broker advised me it’s not a wise decision financially, and he’s right, but the heart wants what the heart wants. I was about to say this heart will go on, but I really fucking hate Celine Dion and I think the Titanic movie is even worse. I watched it on a return flight from Germany when there was nothing else to do. My flight was landing before the ship went down. I might be a hopeless romantic, but I’m not cliché. I think I frightened the lovely German passenger who was sitting next to me when I screamed, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Die already!” But where was I? Oh yeah, my heart and vagina will persist. Let’s just leave it there.
