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“Some dude did a whole study on if people with endometriosis were scientifically more attractive than people without, instead of working on understanding the disease or finding a cure for it, so I mean, sure. Why not have some medical professionals floating demon sex theories too.”
They’re tiny. Minimal in size—but in reality, they’re huge. They’re validation.
One moment changes everything. Validates everything. Doctors who have told you your whole life you’re mentally unstable or have a low pain tolerance, that it’s just painful periods (that one’s hard to swallow when you’re very aware it happens almost every day) suddenly tell you you’re one in ten, ushering you into a forced kinship nobody wants to be a part of.
Sure, I would prefer a cure, but there’s no time for that when you have an erectile d...
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Either people care too much about your pain and you have to endure false pity while they tell you you’re strong, a warrior, and handling things with grace, unconsciously heaping pressure to maintain composure to meet their expectations, or they think you have a low tolerance and need you to quiet your drama queen tendencies.
My diagnosis. The line of demarcation where my past life ended and a new one began.
But if I learned anything with Michel, it’s that it’s not worth the time and effort to get emotionally intimate with someone when I know the physical intimacy is going to hurt like heck and ruin everything anyway.
never wanted my endo. I mean, who would? But I didn’t have a choice, and it has to come with me in whatever relationship I have. How can I justify that? And who the hell would want to take that on? It’s better for everyone if I keep my hopes low and not try.”
How long have I been surviving without living? And how long has my heart just been left to pump blood?
“Yes, I cursed you, and now my lips on your skin are all you can think about.” “You’d have to be desperate to put them there,” I whisper, my lips aching for his to brush against mine. Maybe he really is casting a curse. “Dying, Peaches. Show me you’re dying too.”
What would he do if I gave in and leaned? Would his lips crash into mine, while he buried my back into the wall with a demanding embrace? Or would he maybe enter with a gentle caress instead and work into something more?
“You’re always running, and I’m tired of chasing you.”
I almost kissed Liam Kelly. I wanted to kiss Liam Kelly. More than usual.
She started throwing solutions at me while whining that I wasn’t fun anymore, pointing out my lack of organic food, exercise, gluten intake, etc., as possible culprits, like having this disease without a cure was my fault.
“Your little issue is still giving you problems, huh?” My incurable disease? Why yes, yes, it is.
Endo is exhausting. But it’s a part of my reality. We’re a package deal.
“I don’t,” he whispers and clears his throat. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through or what living like this every day must feel like. But I know you deserve your daydreams. You deserve to find your Gene Kelly, Peaches. Please don’t let it take that. Your ability to dream big and believe in the unbelievable were such big parts of who you were.” The
Follow your dreams. Try. Don’t let endo take this from you too.
like “Hi, my name is Evie, and I have endometriosis, so when I bail on social plans, please do not think I’m flaky or ghosting you. I probably like your company a lot.”
HA!
The problem with endometriosis, nay, one of the problems with endometriosis, is that endometriosis doesn’t care about anything. It doesn’t care that it’s inconvenient. It doesn’t care that it’s causing you a significant amount of pain every hour of every day or that it’s brought you to your knees both mentally and physically. It doesn’t care who you are. What you do or need to do for a living. And it doesn’t care that you’re in the middle of one of the most spectacular moments in your life—or maybe it does care, and it’s just a bitch.
“Dating with all of this.” I gesture to my pelvic region. “It complicates a lot of things I feel like everyone talks about as cornerstones in relationships.”
It’s all valid. But sometimes, I wish that in validating other people’s pain, I didn’t feel like I was diminishing my own.
But when Clare says she knows exactly how I feel, I can’t help but get the sense that it’s misplaced empathy.
I know that even after I carry, the effects of endometriosis will still be there, and the prospect of taking care of another human life when I can barely take care of myself somedays is daunting.
HAPPILY ENDO AFTER
