A poem about how pain can feel like it takes over your identity. Written in a flare. Any Spoonies who can relate, please make yourself known in the comments!
For me, every month is pelvic pain awareness month. Nevertheless, I thought I'd honour this by completing the 'Spoonie' blogging tag and carry on my 'Diary of a Broken Vagina' series. Prepare to know me a lot better.
WARNING. DO NOT READ THIS ARTICLE IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH ABOUT FEMALE BODIES AND/OR DON'T WANT TO KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MINE AND/OR ARE MY DAD.
In my first meeting with the Women’s Health Physiotherapist, she did an internal examination. In the second meeting, she forgot my name. No, she couldn’t remember my name, but she’d had her fingers inside my vaginal tract. Welcome to the weirdness of pelvic floor therapy.
Simply put, this is a stonking addition to modern feminist literature. Wolf provides a sweeping biography of female sexuality and how it has been perceived, feared, subjugated, and embraced, throughout the centuries of civilisation. In this age of Pornography as Teacher, we have never needed Wolf’s perspective more.
More often than not, we chronic pain warriors have another huge fight on our hands: getting the right treatment. It’s a long old slog. Like Frodo on his perilous quest, the path is twisted and arduous, and you’ve usually got one dim-witted friend dragging you back pining about potatoes, a slimy little creature intermittently spitting venom at you, and a whole host of characters to meet before you get one treatment to cure them all.