Ctrl+Alt+Del: The Three Finger Salute

It's 3am. Wednesday morning.

I'm angry. So incredibly fucking angry.
And frustrated. Fuck. So inexplicably frustrated.
And upset.
And hurt.
And listless.
And exasperated.
And melancholy
And bitter.

And tired.

I cannot even begin to tell you how tired I am.

But "tired" means so many things when you're 28, staring down the barrel of a majorly life changing surgery, trying to juggle work, study and personal and professional relationships with chronic pain, fatigue and crippling anxiety, depression and self doubt.

I genuinely wish that there was a way to force quit certain programmes which run in the background of our lives, slowing down our operating systems.

Ctrl + Alt + Del > Task Manager > Force Quit.
"Are you sure?"
Yes. A million times yes.

Endo is a cunt of a disease, and as much as I'd like to say it's a disease of the cunt (because wordplay, obviously) unfortunately it's not confined specifically to that area.

Endometriosis is a cruel, pervasive, unrelenting bitch which has been the bane of my existence for the past 8 years.
There is no cure.
And from where I'm sitting right now - on my couch, curled up with my heat pack and crying - there's not a hell of a lot of hope.

I've been fighting for a hysterectomy for the better part of two years.
In those two years I've undergone two other surgeries for excision of endometriosis, cysts and my left ovary.
In those two years I've been admitted to hospital for anywhere from two to eight days at a time, more times than I can count.

In the eight years since I was diagnosed, I've had 6 surgeries, 7 general anaesthetics and if we average my admissions to twice every three months, that's 64 admissions in eight years... and that's not considering the GP visits, trips to the ED and all the other shit that's involved with having a long standing illness.
I don't even want to consider what that all amounts to.

Aforementioned hysterectomy has finally been granted, but only after extensive psychological care.
They're still not convinced it's going to do me any good in terms of my pain, however, have agreed to go ahead with it because they are worried that (and this is verbatim) "if we don't, I'm concerned it will affect your mental health".

Oh. Right. Okay.

I don't know if it's just because of my already fucked up mental state, but it felt like a giant slap in the face.
As if to say "Well Serenity, we're only agreeing to it so that you'll drop it, not because we're convinced that something is wrong in there and that you deserve a chance at being pain free, but so that we can say 'ha-ha, we told you so' once the surgery is over and done with and you're still in pain".

The sting from that proverbial slap is still very much present, and the ringing it's left in my ear has done nothing but get louder and louder and louder as the days go on.

Monday 21st March, 2016.
8:45am.
I'll finally find out when I can be rid of this godforsaken Demon Uterus, Ursula (yeah, just like that evil sea wench from Little Mermaid) and her dumb-ass sidekick, Odette the Ovary and her clinger on, Francine the Fallopian Tube.

Besides, I have this cute wee lady now!

You'd think I'd be excited, and don't get me wrong, I am.
However, I'm a nervous wreck and it's wearing thin.
My pain is flaring as a result, and in a cruel twist of fate, this leads to further nerves and anxiety, which leads to more pain... Which leads to... You get the jist.

What if I get to the appointment and they've changed their mind?
What if I have the surgery and get no relief?
What if I don't recover from the surgery well and wind up worse than before?
What if the pressure is too much and I have to drop out of study? Out of work?
What if it's too much to handle and my relationships suffer?
What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if?

"Don't think of the what if's, the ands, the buts and the maybes... Be positive. Look for the silver lining"

Fuck off.
I have. And I do. But every now and then the cracks in the facade begin to show, and you have to forgive a girl for having a breakdown and losing her shit when she's about to sprout facial hair and start sweating like a whore in church, stripping off in the middle of the frozens aisle begging for relief from the hot flushes.

For now there isn't a hell of a lot to do but wait it out and try not to drive myself and those around me crazy.

So that's that.
This is me; in all my angsty, frustrated glory.

Here's to the countdown, the meltdown and all the shit in between.

Ovary and out

S