It's Saturday morning. When did I wake up? Eight freaking am. UGH.
I can't find my ATM card which is bad because there are things I really kind of need to buy today.
And my stomach hurts too badly for me to go back to sleep. Whine whine whine, I know, but this all really does suck. I hurt from my waist to my ankles.
So if you're sick of hearing me whine about this endometriosis crap, stop reading here and pretend this was a nice, upbeat entry.
Sigh. I start to get cramps and then my muscles get all tense so my back starts to hurt and the muscles in my stomach hurt, and then becasue I've been so tense, even the muscles in my legs start to hurt until I just am one great big walking ache.
And joy of joys, I'm working today at 4:30.
I want..
hrm. What do I want?
I want to spend the day curled up in my bed, watching Pride and Prejudice with Andrew sitting near me. I want it to be raining outside and I want a cup of hot tea.
You would think that this would be simple to obtain, but noooooo.
I just had a rather unpleasant thought. What do I do if I have to put up with this crap around Thanksgiving? Augh. Augh augh augh. That would suck. Hrm. What good will I be as a visitor if I'm in too much pain to be talkative and nice or else too stoned to say anything worth hearing?
Hrmn. I suppose there are things one can do.
Right now all I want is to stop hurting. Just to stop. For good. To never have this again.
No more of this creeping, insinuating pain that just keeps spreading slowly. No more of hurting too much to walk, hurting too much to talk sensibly, hurting too much to eat. NO MORE. I can't do it. It's beyond my capacity to endure.
I wish that was really true, in some ways. Wish I couldn't endure this, because somehow the fact that I can just makes it all worse. It's endurable, yes. For how long, I don't know. Every month I get to a point where, in tears, I swear I can't do this anymore, that I'm too tired, that I'm not strong enough.
But I carry on all the same.
But maybe some month it'll be as true as I feel like it is. Maybe some month I will run out of my final ounce of strength, will exhaust everything in my reserve. The lack of sleep will finally get me, maybe. The exhaustion that comes of spending every day feeling like a giant hand is squeezing your insides as hard as it can, smashing them into pulp for the mere sadistic pleasure of it.
In good part, this is terrible because one feels trapped by it. How do you get away from your own freaking uterus? You don't. Exactly. So here I am, held in my bed by a force strong enough to keep me from being able to stay out of it. Held down and even if I escape the pain, my body is still being damaged.
I suppose that's what gets to me about it. I can help the pain, in at least some cases. But even when it doesn't hurt... things are still terribly wrong.
This is the time of month in which I spend a good deal of time curled up in a fetal position and wondering things that no girl should have to have a logical reason for wondering.
One sad thing is that I've grown so used to this sort of pain once it's started that if it stops, or diminishes, or the pain meds help it, I immediately get suspicious. I can't believe it's gone. I grow even more tense (if it's possible) from the dread of it returning.
Dread is a terrible word. If you don't know what it's like to dread an entire week, sometimes more, out of each month, you are truly lucky. There are times the prospect upsets me to the point of tears. The prospect of another time of this. Another handful of days stolen. If I there were a way to protest it, to flee it, I would protest with all of my voice, until I was too hoarse to make another noise. I would run until the only choice I had left was to fall down, and then I would crawl.
And so this morning, this beginning of a day that I can already tell will be long, is not a happy morning. All I want is respite. And to have full respite from this is denied from me.
Jesus, help me.
Love,
Beth
today, too?