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Cementing a fair amount of my organs and ligaments together, endometriosis has negatively impacted enormous swaths of my life. Incurable, treatments and management plans range from miserable to soul-crushing, and true relief is hard to come by. Most of the time, people are too uncomfortable with negativity and pain for honest answers. Wanting to fix it, fix me, they offer positivity and solutions, which become toxic in their frequency. I’m an optimistic person in my own way, but there’s a danger in forceful optimism and not recognizing reality. I exist in a state of perpetual pain, and I’ve
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and were okay with it. Otherwise, the guilt and anxiety of being “a downer” are put on me too.
A struggling blogger and part-time bartender, currently inhaling copious amounts of artificial dairy on a side street in Paris while devoting most of my mental energy to
Not today, Satan. Not. To. Day.”
Hades masquerading as Hercules, and only I could see it.
My chronic illness automatically placed me a good five steps behind him, navigating life through the heavy filter of endometriosis-induced chronic fatigue
late nights chasing fireflies, picking lilacs in blossom, boombox blaring, singing and dancing in the rain, and utter defeat and humiliation. He, frankly, is home. And
“There are only two places in the world where we can live happy—at home and in Paris.”
If you’re feeling down and out or need a place to think, there is precious little a sandwich from Castelblangeois and a park bench at Place Dauphine cannot cure.
Okay, Lizzie McGuire doodle, chill. Your naive ass got us in enough trouble already.
A sharp twinge tortures my left ovary—a quick stab and twist of a knife. I press in on that side and breathe, dropping my mask slightly. One. Two. It doesn’t go away, but I have a life to live, so I can only devote two seconds of my sanity to caring. There’s always a pain. Just some are more manageable than others.
The minor scars on my abdomen from what should have been a “You might have endo” exploratory surgery, but quickly turned into, “Oh shit, you have way more crap going on down there than expected” surgery are fading a bit, which is appreciated. They’re tiny. Minimal
Girls used to make shirts with Liam’s name on them, but he always offered me this one, saying “his girl” deserved something official.
I’ll never forget the one and only time I watched Gregory Peck walk down the long hallway, heart racing. I kept peeking at Nana. “She’s going to run down the hallway, right? Any minute now, she’s going to come.” But she never did, and no one holds a grudge formed at the age of seven quite like me.
Liam draws his lips together thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I think going about your life knowing someone loves you and living off that one perfect memory seems good enough.”
You needed a villain more than you needed the truth.
